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Accessions  No.  blTtf/tf  .        CLns  No. 


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IN  CLASSIC  SHADES 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


JOAQUIN  MILLER, 


AUTHOR  OF 


1  SONGS    OF    THE    SIERRAS,"    "SONGS    OF    THE    SUN  LANDS, 

"THE    SHIP   IN    THE   DESERT,"    "  SONGS 

OF   ITALY,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


CHICAGO : 

BELFORD-CLARKE  CO. 
1890, 


COPYRIGHT, 

1890. 
JOAQUIN  MILLER, 


(ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVKD.) 


I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 

•,TO    KlY 

MOST    INDULGENT    CRITIC, 

LOYAL    LITTLK 

JUANITA  MILLER. 


THE  HEIGHTS, 

OAKLAND,  CAL., 

/•'<•/»•  utiry,  1890. 


DEDICA  TED 

TO 

JUAXITA,   OX  HER  nf 

Come  listen,  O  love,   to  the  voice  of  the  dove, 
Come,  hearken,  and  hear  him  say,  my  love ; 
THERE  ARE  MANY  TO  MORROWS,  MY  LOVE, 
THERE  is  ONLY  ONE  TO-DAY. 

And  all  day  long  you  can  hear  him  say 
This  day  in  purple  is  rolled, 
And  the  holy  stars  of  the  milky  way 
7'hev  are  cradled  in  cradles  of  gold. 

Now  what  is  thy  secret,  serene  gray  dove, 

Of  moving,  of  rising,  along? 

THERE  ARE  MANY  TO-MORROWS,  MY  LOVE,  MY  LOVE, 

THERE  is  ONLY  ONE  TO-DAY. 


JSIVBRSITYl 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

After  the  Battle go 

After  the  War 93 

A   Christmas    Eve   in    the 

Palm  Land 21 

A  Dead  Carpenter 113 

A  Nubian  Face  on  the  Nile  56  j 

A.  T.  Stewart 105 

Back  to  the  Golden  Gate.  .  115 

By  the  Balboa  Seas 74 

By  the  Great  River 98 

By  the  Lower  Mississippi.  83 

By  the  Pacific  Ocean.    ...  97 

California's  Christmas.  ...  67   , 

Comanche 24 

Coming 72 

Custer 52 

Dead  in  the  Long,  Strong 

Grass 119 

Dedication  to  Juanita 4 

Down  the  Mississippi 54 

Drowned 86 

Finale 127  i 

Garfield 124 

Grant  at  Shiloh 100 

Her  Picture 84 


PAGE. 

Horace  Greeley's  Drive.  .  .  145 

In  Classic  Shades 131 

Juanita 7 

La  Exposicion 55 

La  Notte 66 

Lincoln  Park 58 

Magnolia  Blossoms 60 

Manitoba 61 

Montgomery  at  Quebec.  ..  59 

My  Country 91 

My  Last  Day  with  Mr. 

Longfellow 122 

Newport  News 70 

Olive 33 

Our  Heroes  of  To-Day 78 

Outside  of  Church 53 

Peter  Cooper 104 

Quebec 118 

Kiel,  the  Rebel 19 

Saratoga  and  the  Psalmist.  153 

Sierra 118 

The  Battle-Flag  at  Shenan- 

doah 34 

The  Birth  of  California's 

Arbor  Day 102 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Fortunate  Isles 1 16 

The   Gold    that   Grew    by 

Shasta  Town 41 

The  Larger  College 106 

The  Lost  Regiment 37 

The  Lost  Boy  Regiments.  .  81 

The  New  President 63 

The  Poem  by  the  Potomac  no 

The  River  of  Rest 65 

The  Sioux  Chief's  Daugh 
ter  46  | 

The  Size  of  Souls 118   | 

The  Soldiers'  Home,  Wash 
ington  28 

The  True  Poet 71 


PAGE 

The    World    is    a    Better 

World 57 

That  Faithful  Wife  of  Idaho  149 
That  Gentleman  from  Bos 
ton  Town 135 

Those      Perilous     Spanish 

Eyes 69 

"To  Die  for  the  Country".     75 

To  Mount  Shasta 126 

To  Russia 15 

To  Rachel  in  Russia 17 

To  the  Czar n 

Twilight  on  Oakland 

Heights  101 
William  Brown  of  Oregon.   140 


fi^^b, 

A   0?  THS^^S 

UNIVERSITY; 


JUANITA. 

You  will  come  my  bird,  bonnita? 

Come!     For  I  by  steep  and  stone 
Have  built  such  nest  for  you,  Juanita, 

As  not  eagle  bird  hath  known. 

Rugged  !     Rugged  as  Parnassus  ! 

Rude,  as  all  roads  I  have  trod — 
Yet  are  steeps  and  stone-strown  passes 

Smooth  o'er  head,  and  nearest  God. 

Here  black  thunders  of  my  canyon 
Shake  its  walls  in  Titan  wars  ! 

Here  white  sea-born  clouds  companion 
With  such  peaks  as  know  the  stars  ! 

Here  madrona,  nianzineta — 

Here  the  snarling  chaparral 
House  and  hang  o'er  steeps,  fuanita, 
Where  the  gaunt  wolf  loved  to  dwell  / 
7 


JUANITA. 

Dear,  I  took  these  trackless  masses 

Fresh  from  Him  who  fashioned  them; 

Wrought  in  rock,  and  hewed  fair  passes, 
flower  set,  as  sets  a  gem. 

Aye,  I  built  in  woe.      God  willed  it; 

Woe  that  pass eth  ghosts  of  guilt. 
Yet  I  built  as  His  birds  builded— 

Builded  singing  as  I  built. 

All  is  finished  !     Roads  of  flowers 

Wait  your  loyal  little  feet. 
All  completed?     Nay,  the  hours. 

Till  you  come  are  incomplete. 

Steep  below  me  lies  the  valley, 
Deep  beloiv  me  lies  the  town, 

Where  great  sea-ships  ride  and  rally  t 
And  the  world  walks  up  and  down. 

O,  the  sea  of  lights  for  streaming 

When  the  thousand  flags  are  furled— 

When  the  gleaming  bay  lies  dreaming 
As  it  duplicates  the  world 7 


JU ANITA. 

You  will  come  my  dearest,  truest? 

Come  mv  sovereign  queen  of  ten; 
My  blue  skies  will  then  be  bluest; 

My  white  rose  be  whitest  then: 

Then  the  song  !     Ah,  then  the  sabre 
Flashing  up  the  walls  of  night  ! 

Hate  of  wrong  and  lore  of  neighbor — 
Rhymes  of  battle  for  the  Right  ! 


UHI7BRSIT7 


TO   THE   CZAR 


TO  THE  CZAR. 

DOWN  from  her  high  estate  she  stept, 

A  maiden,  gently  born, 
And  by  the  icy  Volga  kept 

Sad  watch,  and  waited  morn  ; 
And  peasants  say  that  where  she  slept 
The  new  moon  dipt  her  horn. 

Yet  on  and  on,  through  shore/ess  snows, 

Far  tow' rd  the  bleak  north  pole, 
The  foulest  wrong  the  good  God  knows 

Rolled  as  dark  rivers  roll. 
While  never  once  for  all  their  woes 
Upspake  your  ruthless  soul. 

She  toiled,  she  taught  the  peasant,  taught 

The  dark-eyed  Tartar.      He, 
Illumined  with  her  lofty  thought, 

Rose  up  and  sought  to  be, 
What  God  at  the  creation  wrought, 

A  man  !     God -like  and  free. 


12  TO  THE  CZAR. 

Yet  still  before  him  yawned  the  black 

Siberian  mines  !  And  oh, 
The  knout  upon  the  bare  white  back  ! 

The  blood  upon  the  snow  ! 
The  gaunt  wolves,  close  upon  the  track, 

Fought  o'er  the  fallen  so  ! 

And  this  that  one  might  wear  a  crown 

Snatched  from  a  strangled  sire  ! 
And  this  that  two  might  mock  or  frown, 
From  high  thrones  climbing  higher — 
From  where  the  Parricide  looked  down 
With  harlot  in  desire  ! 

Yet  on,  beneath  the  great  north  star, 

Like  some  lost,  living  thing, 
That  long  dread  line  stretched,  black  and  far 

Till  buried  by  death's  wing  ! 
And  great  men  praised  the  goodly  Czar — 
But  God  sat  pitying. 


A  storm  burst  forth  !     From  out  the  storm 
The  clean,  red  lightning  leapt, 

And  lo,  a  prostrate  royal  form  .... 
And  Alexander  slept  ! 

Down  through  the  snow,  all  smoking  warm, 
Like  any  blood,  his  crept. 


TO  THE  CZAR.  13 

Yea,  one  lay  dead,  for  millions  dead 7 

One  red  spot  in  the  snow 
For  one  long  damning  line  of  red, 

Where  exiles  endless  go — 
The  babe  at  breast,  the  mother's  head 
Bowed  down,  and  dying  so  ! 

And  did  a  woman  do  this  deed  ? 
Then  build  her  scaffold  high, 
That  all  may  on  her  forehead  read 

The  martyr's  right  to  die  ! 
Ring  Cossack  round  on  royal  steed  ! 
Now  lift  her  to  the  sky  ! 

But  see  !     From  out  the  black  hood  shines 

A  light  few  look  upon  ! 
Lorn  exiles,  see,  from  dark,  deep  mines, 

A  star  at  burst  of  dawn  ! 
A  thud  !     A  creak  of  hangman's  lines  /-  - 
A  frail  shape  jerked  and  drawn  !  .... 


The  Czar  is  dead  ;  the  woman  dead, 

About  her  neck  a  cord. 
In  God's  house  rests  his  royal  head — 

Hers  in  a  place  abhorred  : 
Yet  I  had  rather  have  her  bed 

Than  thine,  most  royal  lord  ! 


1 4  TO  THE  CZAR. 

Yea,  rather  be  that  woman  dead, 
Than  thee,  dead-living  Czar, 

To  hide  in  dread,  with  both  hands  red, 
Behind  great  bolt  and  bar.   .    . 

You  may  control  to  the  North  Pole, 
But  God  still  guides  His  star. 


TO  RUSSIA.  15 


TO  RUSSIA. 

'Where  wast  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth?1 

—Bible. 

WHO  tamed  your  lawless  Tartar  blood  ? 

What  David  bearded  in  her  den 

The  Russian  bear  in  a^es  when 
You  strode  your  black;  unbridled  stud, 
A  skin-clad  savage  of  your  steeps  ? 
Why,  one  who  now  sits  low  and  weeps, 
Why  one  who  now  wails  out  to  you — 
The  Jew,  the  homeless,  hated  Jew. 

Who  girt  the  thews  of  your  young  prime 
And  bound  your  fierce  divided  force  ? 
Why,  who  but  Moses  shaped  your  course 

United  down  the  grooves  of  time? 

Your  mighty  millions  all  to-day 

The  hated,  homeless  Jews  obey. 

Who  taught  all  poetry  to  you  ? 

The  Jew,  the  hated,  homeless  Jew. 


1 6  TO  RUSSIA. 

Who  taught  you  tender  Bible  tales 
Of  honey-lands,  of  milk  and  wine  ? 
Of  happy,  peaceful  Palestine? 
Of  Jordan's  holy  harvest-vales  ? 
Who  gave  the  patient  Christ  ?     I  say, 
Who  gave  your  Christian  creed  ?     Yea,  yea, 
Who  gave  your  very  God  to  you  ? 
Your  Jew  !     Your  Jew  !     Your  hated  Jew  ! 


TO  RACHEL  IN  RUSSIA. 


TO  RACHEL  IN   RUSSIA. 


"To  bring  them   unto  a  good  land  and  a  large;  unto  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey." 


O  THOU,  whose  patient,  peaceful  blood 
Paints  Sharon's  roses  on  thy  cheek, 
And  down  thy  breasts  plays  hide  and  seek, 
Six  thousand  years  a  stainless  flood, 
Rise  up  and  set  thy  sad  face  hence. 
Rise  up  and  come  where  Freedom  waits 
Within  these  white,  wide  ocean-gates 
To  give  thee  God's  inheritance  ; 
To  bind  thy  wounds  in  this  despair  ; 
To  braid  thy  long,  strong,  loosened  hair. 


O  Rachel,  weeping  where  the  flood 

Of  icy  Volga  grinds  and  flows 

Against  his  banks  of  blood-red  snows — 

White  banks  made  red  with  children's  blood — 

Lift  up  thy  head,  be  comforted  ; 

For,  as  thou  didst  orj  manna  feed, 


1 8  TO  RA  CHEL  IN  R  US  SI  A . 

When  Russia  roamed  a  bear  in  deed, 
And  on  her  own  foul  essence  fed, 
So  shalt  thou  flourish  as  a  tree 
When  Russ  and  Cossack  shall  not  be. 

Then  come  where  yellow  harvests  swell  • 

Forsake  the  savage  land  of  snows  ; 

Forget  the  brutal  Russian's  blows  ; 

And  come  where  Kings  of  Conscience  dwell. 

Oh  come,  Rebecca  to  the  well  ! 

The  voice  of  Rachel  shall  be  sweet, 

The  Gleaner  rest  safe  at  the  feet 

Of  one  who  loves  her  ;  and  the  spell 

Of  Peace  that  blesses  Paradise 

Shall  kiss  thy  large  and  lonely  eyes. 


RIEL  :    THE  REBEL.  1 9 


KIEL:  THE  REBEL. 

HE  died  at  dawn  in  the  land  of  snows, 

A  priest  at  the  left,  a  priest  at  the  right ; 
The  doomed  man  praying  for  his  pitiless  foes, 
And  each  priest   holding  a  low  dim  lamp, 
To  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  dying. 
But  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away  ; 
And  Windsor  Castle  was  never  so  gay 
With  her  gorgeous  banners  flying  ! 

The  hero  was  hung  in  the  windy  dawn — 

'Twas  splendidly  done,  the  telegraph  said  ; 
A  creak  of  the  neck,  then  the  shoulders  drawn  ; 
A  heave  of  the  breast — and  the  man  hung  dead. 
And,  oh  !  never  such  valiant  dying  ! 
While  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away 
With  its  fops  and  fools  on  that  windy  day, 
And  its  thousand  banners  flying  ! 

Some  starving  babes  where  a  stark  stream  flows 
'Twixt  windy  banks  by  an  Indian  town, 

A  frenzied  mother  in  the  freezing  snows, 
While  softly  the  pitying  snow  came  down 


20  KIEL:    THE  REBEL. 

To  cover  the  dead  and  the  dying. 

But  Windsor  Castle  was  gorgeous  and  gay 
With  lion  banners  that  windy  day — 
With  lying  banners  flying. 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE  PALM  LAND.         21 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN  THE  PALM  LAND. 

THEIR  priests  are  many,  for  many  their  sins, 
Their  sins  are  many,  for  their  land  is  fair; 
The  perfumed  waves  and  the  perfumed  winds, 
The  cocoa-palms  and  the  perfumed  air; 

The  proud  old  Dons,  so  poor  and  so  proud, 
So  poor  their  ghosts  can  scarce  wear  a  shroud — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  priests  and  prayer; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

A  proud  Spanish  Don  lies  shriven  and  dead; 

The  cross  on  his  breast,  a  priest  at  his  prayer; 
His  slave  at  his  feet,  his  son  at  his  head— 
A  slave's  white  face  in  a  mantle  of  hair: 
A  slave's  white  face,  why,  a  face  as  white, 
As  white  as  that  dead  man's  face  this  night — 
This  town  of  Columbus  can  pray  for  the  dead; 

And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  moon  hangs  white  up  at  heaven's  white  door, 
Quite  dead  in  the  isle  of  the  great,  warm  seas 

Lies  the  old  proud  Don,  so  proud  and  so  poor, 
And  two  quite  close  by  the  bed  on  their  knees; 


22         A   CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE  PALM  LAND. 

The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
And  both  in  tears  for  the  proud  man  dead — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  tears  if  you  please; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

Aye,  both  are  in  tears;  for  a  child  might  trace 

In  the  face  of  the  slave,  as  the  face  of  the  son, 
The  same  proud  look  of  the  dead  man's  face — 
The  beauty  of  one;  and  the  valor  of  one — 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
This  night  of  Christ,  wnere  the  Don  lies  dead— 
This  town  of  Columbus,  this  land  of  the  sun 

Keeps  great  bells  clanging  in  the  palm  land. 

The  slave  is  so  fair,  and  so  wonderful  fair  ! 

A  statue  stepped  out  from  some  temple  of  old; 
Why,  you  could  entwine  your  two  hands  in  her  hair, 
Nor  yet  could  encompass  its  ample,  dark  fold. 
And  oh,  that  pitiful,  upturned  face; 
Her  master  lies  dead — she  knows  her  place. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  hundreds  at  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  proud  Don  dead,  and  this  son  his  heir; 

This  slave  his  fortune.     Now  what  shall  he  do  ? 
Why,  what  should  he  do?  or  what  should  he  care. 

Save  only  to  cherish  a  pride  as  true  ? — 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE  PALM  LAND.        23 

To  hide  his  shame  as  the  good  priests  hide 
Black  sins  confessed  when  the  damned  have  died. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  pride  with  her  prayer — 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land  ! 

Lo,  Christ's  own  hour  in  the  argent  seas, 
And  she,  his  sister,  his  own  born  slave  ! 
His  secret  is  safe;  just  master  and  she; 

These  two,  and  the  dead  at  the  door  of  the  grave.  .  . 
And  death,  whatever  our  other  friends  do, 
Why,  death,  my  friend,  is  a  friend  most  true — 
This  town  of  Columbus  keeps  pride  and  keeps  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 


24  COMANCHE. 


COMANCHE. 

A  BLAZING  home,  a  blood-soaked  hearth  ; 

Fair  woman's  hair  with  blood  upon  ! 
That  Ishmaelite  of  all  the  earth 

Has  like  a  cyclone,  come  and  gone  — 
His  feet  are  as  the  blighting  dearth  ; 

His  hands  are  daggers  drawn. 

"  To  horse  !   to  horse  !  "  the  rangers  shout, 
And  red  revenge  is  on  his  track  ! 

The  black-haired  Bedouin  en  route 
Looks  like  a  long,  bent  line  of  black. 

He  does  not  halt  nor  turn  about  ; 
He  scorns  to  once  look  back. 

But  on  !   right  on  that  line  of  black, 

Across  the  snow-white,  sand- sown  pass  ; 

The  bearded  rangers  on  their  track 
Bear  thirsty  sabres  bright  as  glass. 

Yet  not  one  red  man  there  looks  back  ; 
His  nerves  are  braided  brass. 


COMANCHE.  25 

At  last,  at  last,  their  mountain  came 
To  clasp  its  children  in  their  flight  ! 

Up,  up  from  out  the  sands  of  flame 

They  clambered,  bleeding,  to  their  height  ; 

'I  his  savage  summit,  now  so  tame, 
Their  lone  star,  that  dread  night  ! 

"  Huzzah  !   Dismount  !  "   the  captain  cried. 

11  Huzzah  !   the  rovers  cease  to  roam  ! 
The  river  keeps  yon  farther  side, 

A  roaring  cataract  of  foam. 
They  die,  they  die  for  those  who  died 

Last  night  by  hearth  and  home  !  " 

His  men  stood  still  beneath  the  steep; 

The  high,  still  moon  stood  like  a  nun. 
The  horses  stood  as  willows  weep; 

Their  weary  heads  drooped  every  one. 
But  no  man  there  had  thought  of  sleep; 

Each  waited  for  the  sun. 

Vast  nun-white  moon  !      Her  silver  rill 

Of  snow-white  peace  she  ceaseless  poured; 

The  rock-built  battlement  grew  still, 
The  deep-down  river  roared  and  roared. 

But  each  man  there  with  iron  will 
Leaned  silent  on  his  sword. 


,  '^  ^ 

(UNIVERSITY 


26  COMANCHE. 

Hark  !     See  what  light  starts  from  the  steep  ! 

And  hear,  ah,  hear  that  piercing  sound. 
It  is  their  lorn  death-song  they  keep 

In  solemn  and  majestic  round. 
The  red  fox  of  these  deserts  deep 

At  last  is  run  to  ground. 
********* 

Oh,  it  was  weird, — that  wild,  pent  horde  ! 

Their  death-lights,  their  death-wails  each  one. 
The  river  in  sad  chorus  roared 

And  boomed  like  some  great  funeral  gun. 
The  while  each  ranger  nursed  his  sword 

And  waited  for  the  sun. 

Then  sudden  star-tipped  mountains  topt 
With  flame  beyond  !     And  watch-fires  ran 

To  where  white  peaks  high  heaven  propt; 
And  star  and  light  left  scarce  a  span. 

Why  none  could  say  where  death-lights  stopt 
Or  wb^e  red  stars  began  ! 

And  then  :he  far,  wild  wails  that  came 

In  tremulous  and  pitying  flight 
From  star-lit  peak  and  peak  of  flame  ! 

Wails  that  had  lost  their  way  that  night 
And  knor\ed  at  each  heart's  door  to  claim 
;on  in  their  flight. 


COMANCHE.  27 

O,  chu-lu-le  !     O,  chu-lu-lo  ! 

A  thousand  red  hands  reached  in  air. 
O,  chu-lu-le  !     O,  ctiu-lu-lo  ! 

When  midnight  housed  in  midnight  hair, 
O,  chu-lu-le  !     O,  chu-lu-lo  ! 

Their  one  last  wailing  prayer. 

And  all  night  long,  nude  Rachels  poured 

Melodious  pity  one  by  one 
From  mountain  top.     The  river  roared 

Sad  requiem  for  his  braves  undone. 
The  while  each  ranger  nursed  his  sword 

And  waited  for  the  sun. 


28          THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON. 


THE  SOLDIERS'    HOME,   WASHINGTON. 

THE  monument,  tipped  with  electric  fire, 

Blazed  high  in  a  halo  of  light  below 
My  low  cabin  door  in  the  hills  that  inspire  ; 

And  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  gleamed  like  snow 
In  a  glory  of  light,  as  higher  and  higher 

This  wondrous  creation  of  man  was  sent 

To  challenge  the  lights  of  the  firmament. 

A  tall  man,  tawny  and  spare  as  bone, 

With  battered  old  hat  and  with  feet  half  bare, 

With  the  air  of  a  soldier  that  was  all  his  own — 
Aye,  something  more  than  a  soldier's  air — 
Came  clutching  a  staff,  with  a  face  like  stone  : 
Limped  in  through  my  gate — and  I  thought  to  beg  — 
Tight  clutching  a  staff,  slow  dragging  a  leg. 

The  moon,  like  a  sharp-drawn  cimeter, 

Kept  peace  in  Heaven.     All  earth  lay  still. 

Some  sentinel  stars  stood  watch  afar, 

Some  crickets  kept  clanging  along  the  hill, 

As  the  tall,  stern  relic  of  blood  and  war 

Limped  in,  and,  with  hand   up  to  brow  half  raised, 
Limped  up,  looked  out,  as  one  dazed  or  crazed. 


THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON. 

His  gaunt  face  pleading  for  food  and  rest, 
His  set  lips  white  as  a  tale  of  shame, 

His  black  coat  tight  to  a  shirtless  breast, 
His  black  eyes  burning  in  mine-like  flame  ; 
But  never  a  word  from  his  set  lips  came 
As  he  whipped  in  line  his  battered  old  leg 
And  his  knees  made  mouths  as  if  to  beg. 

Aye  !   black  were  his  eyes;  but  doubtful  and  dim 
Their  vision  of  beautiful  earth,  I  think. 

And  I  doubt  if  the  distant,  dear  worlds  to  him 
Were  growing  brighter  as  he  neared  the  brink 

Of  dolorous  seas  where  phantom  ships  swim. 
For  his  face  was  as  hard  as  the  hard,  thin  hand 
That  clutched  that  staff  like  an  iron  band. 

"Sir,  I  am  a  soldier  !"    The  battered  old  hat 
Stood  up  as  he  spake,  like  to  one  on  parade — 

Stood  taller  and  braver  as  he  spake  out  that— 
And  the  tattered  old  coat,  that  was  tightly  laid 

To  the  battered  old  breast,  looked  so  trim  thereat 
That  I  knew  the  mouths  of  the  battered  old  leg 
That  had  opened  wide  were  not  made  to  beg. 

"  I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this  twenty  year  : 

Searched  up  and  down  for  my  regiments. 
Have  they  gone  to  that  field  where  no  foes  appear  ? 


30  THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON. 

Have    they  pitched    in    Heaven    their   cloud-white 

tents? 

Or,  tell  me,  my  friend,  shall  I  find  them  here 
On  the  hill  beyond,  at  the  Soldiers'  Home, 
Where  the  weary  soldiers  have  ceased  to  roam  ? 

"Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier. 

Is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home  ? 
There  is  plenty  and  rest  for  us  all,  I  hear, 

And  a  bugler,  bidding  us  cease  to  roam, 
Rides  over  the  hill  the  livelong  year — 

Rides  calling  and  calling  the  brave  to  come 
And  rest  and  rest  in  that  Soldiers'  Home. 

"  Is  this  the  way  ?     I  wandered  in  here 

Just  as  one  will  at  the  close  of  day. 
Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier  ! 

Now,  the  Soldiers'  Home,  sir.      Is  this  the  way? 
I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this  twenty  year, 

Seeking  some  trace  of  my   regiments 

Sabered  and  riddled  and  torn  to  rents. 

"Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier  ! 

A  battered  old  soldier  in  the  dusk  of  his  day; 
But  you  don't  seem  to  heed,  or  you  don't  seem  to  hear, 

Though,  meek  as  I  may,  I  ask  for  the  way 


THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON.  31 

To  the  Soldiers'  Home,   which  must  be  quite  near. 
Yet  under  your  oaks,  in  your  easy  chair, 
You  sit  and  you  sit,  and  you  stare  and  you  stare. 

"What  battle?  What  deeds  did  I  do  in  the  fight? 

Why,  sir,  I  have  seen  green  fields  turn  as  red 
As  yonder  red  town  in  that  marvelous  light  ! 

Then  the    great    blazing   guns  !     Then  the  ghastly 

white  dead — 

But,  tell  me,  I  faint,  I  must  cease  to  roam  ! 
This  battered    leg    aches !       Then    this    sabered  old 

head- 
Is — is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home  ? 

"  Why,  I  hear  men  say  't  is  a  Paradise 
On  the  green  oak  hills  by  the  great  red  town; 

That  many  old  comrades  shall  meet  my  eyes  ; 

That  a  tasseled    young   trooper   rides  up  and  rides 
down, 

With  bugle-horn  blowing  to  the  still  blue  skies, 
Calling  and  calling  to  rest  and  to  stay 
In  that  Soldiers'  Home.    Sir,  is  this  the  way  ? 

"  My  leg  is  so  lame  !     Then  this  sabered  old  head — 
Ah  !   pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  complain  ; 

But  the  road  is  so  rough,  as  I  just  now  said  ; 

And  then  there  is  something  that  troubles  my  brain. 


32  THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON. 

It  makes  the  light  dance  from  yon  Capitol's   dome ; 
It  makes  the  road  dim  as  I  doubtfully  tread. 
But  is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldier's  Home  ? 

"  From  the  first  to  the  last  in  that  desperate  war — 

Why,  I  did  my  part.      If  I  did  not  fall, 
A  hairs-breadth  measure  of  this  skull-bone  scar 

Was  all  that  was  wanting;  and  then  this  ball— 
But  what  cared  I  ?     Ah  !    better  by  far 

Have  a  sabered  old  head  and  a   shattered  old  knee 

To  the  end,  than  not  had  the  praise  of  Lee— 

"  What  !      What  do    I  hear  ?  No  home  there  for  me  ? 

Why,  I  heard  men  say  that  the  war  was  at  end  ! 
Oh,  my  head  swims  so  ;    and  I  scarce  can  see  ! 

But  a  soldier's  a  soldier,  I  think,  my  friend, 
Wherever  that  soldier  may  chance  to  be  ! 

And  wherever  a  soldier  may  chance  to  roam, 

Why,  a  Soldiers'  Home  is  a  soldier's  home  !" 

He  turned  as  to  go;  but  he  sank  to  the  grass; 

And  I  lifted  my  face  to  the  firmament; 
For  I  saw  a  sentinel  white  star  pass, 

Leading  the  way  the  old  soldier  went. 
And  the  light  shone   bright    from  the   Capitol's  dome, 

Brighter  indeed  from  the  monument, 
Lighting  his  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home. 


OLIVE,  33 


OLIVE. 

DOVE -BORNE  symbol,  olive  bough; 

Dove-hued  sign  from  God  to  men, 
As  if  still  the  dove  and  thou 

Kept  companionship  as  then. 

Dove-hued,  holy  branch  of  peace, 
Antique,  all-enduring  tree; 

Deluge  and  the  floods  surcease — 
Deluge  and  Gethsemane. 


34  THE  BATTLE  FLAG  AT  SHENANDOAH. 


THE  BATTLE   FLAG  AT    SHENANDOAH. 

THE  tented  field  wore  a  wrinkled  frown, 
And  the  emptied  church  from  the  hill  looked  down 
On  the  emptied  road  and  the  emptied  town, 
That  summer  Sunday  morning. 


And  here  was  the  blue,  and  there  was  the  gray  ; 
And  a  wide  green  valley  rolled  away 
Between  where  the  battling  armies  lay, 
That  sacred  Sunday  morning. 


And  Custer  sat,  with  impatient  will, 
His  restless  steed,  'mid  his  troopers  still, 
As  he  watched  with  glass  from  the  oak-set  hill, 
That  silent  Sunday  morning. 

Then  fast  he  began  to  chafe  and  fret  ; 
"There's  a  battle  flag  on  a  bayonet 
Too  close  to  my  own  true  soldiers  set 

For  peace  this  Sunday  morning  !  " 


THE  BATTLE  FLAG  AT  SJ/ENANDOAff.  35 

"  Ride  over,  some  one,"  he  haughtily  said, 

"  And  bring  it  to  me  !     Why,  in  bars  blood  red 

And  in  stars  I  will  stain  it,  and  overhead 

Will  flaunt  it  this  Sunday  morning  !  " 


Then  a  West-born  lad,  pale-faced  and  slim, 
Rode  out,  and  touching  his  cap  to  him, 
Swept  down,  as  swift  as  the  swallows  swim, 
That  anxious  Sunday  morning. 


On,  on  through  the  valley  !  up,  up,  anywhere  ! 
That  pale-faced  lad  like  a  bird  through  the  air 
Kept  on  till  he  climbed  to  the  banner  there 
That  bravest  Sunday  morning  ! 


And  he  caught  up  the  flag,  and  around  his  waist 
He  wound  it  tight,  and  he  turned  in  haste, 
And  swift  his  perilous  route  retraced 
That  daring  Sunday  morning. 


All  honor  and  praise  to  the  trusty  steed  ! 
Ah  !  boy,  and  banner,  and  all  God  speed  ! 
God's  pity  for  you  in  your  hour  of  need 
This  deadly  Sunday  morning. 


36  THE  BATTLE  FLAG  AT  SHENANDOAH. 

O,  deadly  shot  !  and  O,  shower  of  lead  ! 
O,  iron  rain  on  the  brave,  bare  head  ! 
Why,  even  the  leaves  from  the  trees  fall  dead 
This  dreadful  Sunday  morning  ! 


But  he  gains  the  oaks  !     Men  cheer  in  their  might  ! 
Brave  Custer  is  weeping  in  his  delight  ! 
Why,  he  is  embracing  the  boy  outright 
This  glorious  Sunday  morning  ! 


But,  soft !   Not  a  word  has  the  pale  boy  said. 
He  unwinds  the  flag.      It  is  starred,  striped,  red 
With  his  heart's  best  blood  ;  and  he  falls  down  dead, 
In  God's  still  Sunday  morning. 


So,  wrap  his  flag  to  his  soldier's  breast ; 
Into  stars  and  stripes  it  is  stained,  and  blest ; 
And  under  the  oaks  let  him  rest  and  rest 
Till  God's  great  Sunday  morning. 


THE  LOST  REGIMENT.  37 


THE  LOST  REGIMENT. 


[In  a  pretty  little  village  in  Louisiana,  destroyed  by  shells 
toward  the  end  of  the  war,  on  a  bayou  back  from  the  river,  a 
great  number  of  very  old  men  had  been  left  by  their  sons  and 
grandsons,  while  they  went  to  the  war.  And  these  old  men,  many 
of  them  veterans  of  other  wars,  formed  themselves  into  a  regi 
ment,  made  for  themselves  uniforms,  picked  up  old  flintlock  guns, 
even  mounted  a  rusty  old  cannon,  and  so  prepared  to  go  to  battle  if 
ever  the  war  came  within  their  reach.  Toward  the  close  of  the 
war  some  gunboats  came  down  the  river  shelling  the  shore.  The 
old  men  heard  the  firing,  and,  gathering  together,  they  set  out  with 
their  old  muskets  and  rusty  old  cannon  to  try  to  reach  the  river 
over  the  corduroy  road  through  the  cypress  swamp.  They  marched 
out  right  merrily  that  hot  day,  shouting  and  bantering  to  en 
courage  each  other,  the  dim  fires  of  their  old  eyes  burning  with 
desire  of  battle,  although  not  one  of  them  was  young  enough  to 
stand  erect.  And  they  never  came  back  any  more.  The  shells 
from  the  gunboats  set  the  dense  and  sultry  woods  on  fire.  Th^ 
old  men  were  shut  in  by  the  flames — the  gray  beards  and  the  gray 
moss  and  the  gray  smoke  together.] 

THE  dying  land  cried  ;  they  heard  her  death-call, 
These  bent,  old  men  stopped,  listened   intent  ; 

Then  rusty  old  muskets  rushed  down  from  the  wall. 
And  squirrel-guns  gleamed  in  that  regiment, 

And  grandsires  marched,  old  muskets  in  hand — 

The  last  men  left  in  the  whole  Southland. 


38  THE  LOST  R  EG  I M EXT. 

The  gray  grandsires  !     They  were  seen  to  reel, 
Their  rusty  old  muskets  a  wearisome  load  ; 

They  marched,  scarce  tall  as  the  cannon's  wheel, 
Marched  merrily  on  up  the  corduroy  road  ; 

These  gray  old  boys,  all  broken  and  bent, 

Marched  out,  the  gallant  last  regiment. 

But  oh  !   that  march  through  the  cypress-trees, 

When  zest  and  excitement  had  died  away  ! 
That    desolate    march     through    the     marsh     to    the 

knees — 

These  gray  grandsires  all  broken  and  bent — 
The  gray  moss  mantling  the  regiment. 

The  gray  bent  men  and  the  mosses  gray  ; 

The  dull  dead  gray  of  the  uniform  ! 
The  dull  dead  skies,  like  to  lead  that  day, 

Dull,  dead,  heavy  and  deathly  warm  ! 
Oh,  what  meant  more  than  the  cypress  meant, 
With  its  mournful  moss,  to  that  regiment  ? 

That  deadly  march  through  the  marshes  deep  ! 

That  sultry  day  and  the  deeds  in  vain  ! 
The  rest  on  the  cypress  roots,  the  sleep — 

The  sleeping  never  to  rise  again  ! 
The  rust  on  the  guns  ;  the  rust  and  the  rent — 
That  dying  and  desolate  regiment  ! 


THE  LOST  REGIMENT.  39 

The  muskets  left  leaning  against  the  trees, 

The  cannon  wheels  clogged  from  the  moss  o'erhead, 

The  cypress-trees  bending  on  obstinate  knees 
As  gray  men  kneeled  by  the  gray  men  dead  ! 

A  lone  bird  rising,  long  legged  and  gray, 

Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 

The  dank  dead  mosses  gave  back  no  sound, 
The  drums  lay  silent  as  the  drummers  there  ; 

The  sultry  stillness  was  so  profound 

You  might  have  heard  an  unuttered  prayer  ; 

And  ever  and  ever  and  far  away, 

Kept  drifting  that  desolate  bird  in  gray. 

The  long  gray  shrouds  of  that  cypress  wood, 

Like  veils  that  sweep  where  the  gray  nuns  weep — 

That  cypress  moss  o'er  the  dankness  deep, 

Why,  the  cypress  roots  they  were  running  blood  ; 

And  to  right  and  to  left  lay  an  old  man  dead— 

A  mourning  cypress  set  foot  and  head. 

'T  was  man  hunting  man  in  the  wilderness  there  ; 

'T  was  man  hunting  man  and  hunting  to  slay  ; 
But  nothing  was  found  but  death  that  clay, 

And  possibly  God  in  that  poisonous  air  ; 
And  possibly  God — and  that  bird  in  gray 
Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 


40  THE  LOST  REGIMENT. 

Now  down  in  the  swamp  where  the  gray  men  fell 
The  fireflies  volley  and  volley  at  night, 

And  black  men  belated  are  heard  to  tell 
Of  the  ghosts  in  gray  in  a  mimic  fight— 

Of  the  ghosts  of  the  gallant  old  men  in  gray 

Who  silently  died  in  the  swamp  that  day. 


THE  GOLD  THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA   TOWN.     41 


THE  GOLD  THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA  TOWN. 

FROM  Shasta  town  to  Redding  town 
The  ground  is  torn  by  miners  dead; 
The  manzanita,  rank  and  red, 

Drops  dusty  berries  up  and  down 

Their  grass-grown  trails.     Their  silent  mines 
Are  wrapped  in  chapparal  and  vines; 

Yet  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down 

'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 

The  quail  pipes  pleasantly.     The  hare 
Leaps  careless  o'er  the  golden  oat 
That  grows  below  the  water  moat; 

The  lizard  basks  in  sunlight  there. 

The  brown  hawk  swims  the  perfumed  air 
Unfrightened  through  the  livelong  day; 

And  now  and  then  a  curious  bear 

Comes  shuffling  down  the  ditch  by  night, 
And  leaves  some  wide,  long  tracks  in  clay 
So  human-like,  so  stealthy  light; 

Where  one  lone  cabin  still  stoops  down 

'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 


42      THE  GOLD   THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA   TOWN. 

That  great  graveyard  of  hopes!  of  men 

Who  sought  for  hidden  veins  of   gold; 

Of  young  men  suddenly  grown  old — 
Of  old  men  dead,  despairing  when 

The  gold  was  just  within  their  hold  ! 
That  storied  land,  whereon  the  light 

Of  other  days  gleams  faintly  still ; 

Somelike  the  halo  of  a  hill 
That  lifts  above  the  falling  night ; 

That  warm,  red,  rich  and  human  land, 

That  flesh-red  soil,  that  warm  red  sand, 
iVhere  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down  ! 
Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town  ! 

'I  know  the  vein  is  here  !"    he  said; 

For  twenty  years,  for  thirty  years  ! 

While  far  away  fell  tears  on  tears 
'^rom  wife  and  babe  who  mourned  him  dead. 

^o  gold  !     No  gold  !     And  he  grew  old 
And  crept  to  toil  with  bended  head 
Amid  a  graveyard  of  his  dead, 

Still  seeking  for  that  vein  of  gold. 

Then  lo,  came  laughing  down  the  years 
A  sweet  grandchild  !      Between  his  tears 


THE  GOLD   THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA   7 OWN.      43 

He  laughed.     He  set  her  by  the  door 

The  while  he  toiled;   his  day's  toil  o'er 
He  held  her  chubby  cheeks  between 

His  hard  palms,  laughed  ;  and  laughing  cried. 
You  should  have  seen,  have  heard  and  seen 

His  boyish  joy,  his  stout  old  pride, 
When  toil  was  done  and  he  sat  down 
At  night,  below  sweet  Shasta  town  ! 

At  last  his  strength  was  gone.      "  No  more  ! 
I  mine  no  more.      I  plant  me  now 

A  vine  and  fig-tree;  worn  and  old, 

I  seek  no  more  my  vein  of  gold. 
But,  oh,  I  sigh  to  give  it  o'er  ; 

These  thirty  years  of  toil  !   somehow 
It  seems  so  hard  ;   but  now,  no  more." 

And  so  the  old  man  set  him  down 

To  plant,  by  pleasant  Shasta  town. 
And  it  was  pleasant;  piped  the  quail 

The  full  year  through.      The  chipmunk  stole, 
His  whiskered  nose  and  tossy  tail 

Full  buried  in  the  sugar-bowl. 


And  purple  grapes  and  grapes  of  gold 

Swung  sweet  as  milk.     While  orange-trees 
Grew  brown  with  laden  honey-bees. 


44     THE  GOLD   THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA   TOWN. 

Oh  !  it  was  pleasant  up  and  down 

That  vine-set  hill  of  Shasta  town  ! 

****** 

And  then  that  cloud-burst  came  !  Ah,  me  ! 
That  torn  ditch  there  !  The  mellow  land 
Rolled  seaward  like  a  rope  of  sand, 

Nor  left  one  leafy  vine  or  tree 

Of  all  that  Eden  nestling  down 

Below  that  moat  by  Shasta  town  ! 


The  old  man  sat  his  cabin's  sill, 

His  gray  head  bowed  upon  his  knee; 
The  child  went  forth,  sang  pleasantly, 
Where  burst  the  ditch  the  day  before, 

And  picked  some  pebbles  from  the  hill. 

The  old  man  moaned,  moaned  o'er  and  o'er 

"  My  babe  is  dowerless,  and  I 

Must  fold  my  helpless  hands  and  die  ! 
Ah,  me  !     What  curse  comes  ever  down 
On  me  and  mine  at  Shasta  town  !" 


"  Good  Grandpa,  see  !  "  the  glad  child  said, 
And  so  leaned  softly  to  his  side,— 

Laid  her  gold  head  to  his  gray  head, 
And  merry  voiced  and  cheery  cried, 


THE  GOLD   THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA   TOWN,     45 

"  Good  Grandpa  :   do  not  weep,  but  see  ! 

I've  found  a  peck  of  orange  seeds  ! 
I  searched  the  hill  for  vine  or  tree  ; 

Not  one  ! — not  even  oats  or  weeds  ; 

But,  oh  !     such  heaps  of  orange  seeds  ! 


'  Come,  good  Grandpa  !      Now  once  you  said 
That  God  is  good.      So  this  may  teach 
That  we  must  plant  each  seed,  and  each 

May  grow  to  be  an  orange-tree. 
Now,  good  Grandpa,  please  raise  your  head, 

And  please  come  plant  the  seeds  with  me." 
And  prattling  thus,  or  like  to  this, 
The  child  thrust  her  full  hands  in  his. 


He  sprang,  sprang  upright  as  of  old. 

'Tis  gold  !   'tis  gold  !   my  hidden  vein  ! 
'Tis  gold  for  you,  sweet  babe,  'tis  gold  ! 
Yea.  God  is  good  ;  we  plant  again  !  " 
So  one  old  miner  still  sits  down 
By  pleasant,  sunlit  Shasta  town. 


46  THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER. 


THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S    DAUGHTER. 

Two  gray  hawks  ride  the  rising  blast  ; 
Dark  cloven  cloud  drive  to  and  fro 
By  peaks  pre-eminent  in  snow; 
A  sounding  river  rushes  past, 
So  wild,  so  vortex-like,  and  vast. 

A  lone  lodge  tops  the  windy  hill ; 
A  tawny  maiden,  mute  and  still, 
Stands  waiting  at  the  river's  brink,  • 
As  weird  and  wild  as  you  can  think. 

A  mighty  chief  is  at  her  feet; 
She  does  not  heed  him  wooing  so — 
She  hears  the  dark,  wild  waters  flow; 

She  waits  her  lover,  tall  and  fleet, 
From  off  the  beaming  hills  of  snow. 

He  comes  !     The  grim  chief  springs  in  air— 
His  brawny  arm,  his  blade  is  bare. 

She  turns;  she  lifts  her  round,  brown  hand  : 
She  looks  him  fairly  in  the  face  ; 
She  moves  her  foot  a  little  pace 


THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER.  47 

And  says,  with  calmness  and  command, 
"  There's  blood  enough  in  this  lorn  land. 

"  But  see  !   a  test  of  strength  and  skill, 
Of  courage  and  fierce  fortitude  ; 
To  breast  and  wrestle  with  the  rude 
And  storm-born  waters,  now  I  will 
Bestow  you  both. 

"    .       .       .       Stand  either  side  ! 

And  you,  my  burly  chief,  I  know 

Would  choose  my  right.      Now  peer  you  low 

Across  the  waters  wild  and  wide. 

See  !  leaning  so  this  morn  I  spied 

Red  berries  dip  yon  farther  side. 

"  See,  dipping,  dripping  in   the  stream  ! 
Twin  boughs  of  autumn  berries  gleam  ! 

"  Now  this,  brave  men,  shall  be  the  test: 
Plunge  in  the  stream,  bear  knife  in  teeth 
To  cut  yon  bough  for  bridal  wreath. 
Plunge  in  !  and  he  who  bears  him  best, 
And  brings  yon  ruddy  fruit  to  land 
The  first,  shall  have  both  heart  and  hand." 


48  77/7=:  SIOVX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER. 

Two  tawny  men,  tall,  brown,  and  thewed 
Like  antique  bronzes  rarely  seen, 
Shot  up  like  flame. 

She  stood  between 
Like  fixed,  impassive  fortitude. 
Then  one  threw  robes  with  sullen  air, 
And  wound  red  fox-tails  in  his  hair  ; 
But  one  with  face  of  proud  delight 
Entwined  a  crest  of  snowy  white. 

She  stood  between.      She  sudden  gave 
The  sign  and  each  impatient  brave 
Shot  sudden  in  the  sounding  wave  ; 
The  startled  waters  gurgled  round  ; 
Their  stubborn  strokes  kept  sullen  sound. 

Oh,  then  awoke  the  love  that  slept  ! 

Oh,  then  her  heart  beat  loud  and  strong  ! 

Oh,  then  the  proud  love  pent  up  long 

Broke  forth  in  wail  upon  the  air ! 

And  leaning  there  she  sobbed  and  wept, 

With  dark  face  mantled  in  her  hair. 

She  lifts  at  last  her  leaning  brow, 

He  nears  the  shore,  her  love  !  and  now 


THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER.  49 

The  foam  flies  spouting  from  a  face 
That  laughing  lifts  from  out  the  race. 

The  race  is  won,  the  work  is  done  ! 
She  sees  the  kingly  crest  of  snow; 
She  knows  her  tall,  brown  Idaho. 
She  cries  aloud,  she  laughing  cries, 
And  tears  are  streaming  from  her  eyes : 
"  O  splendid,  kingly  Idaho  ! 
I  kiss  thy  lifted  crest  of  snow; 

"  My  tall  and  tawny  king,  come  back  ! 

Come  swift,  O  sweet  !   why  falter  so  ? 

Come  !   Come  !  What  thing  has  crossed  your  track? 

1  kneel  to  all  the  gods  I  know. 

Great  Spirit,  what  is  this   I  dread  ? 

Why  there  is  blood  !   the  wave  is  red  ! 

That  wrinkled  chief,  outstripped  in  race, 

Dives  down,  and,  hiding  from  my  face, 

Strikes  underneath. 

"  .        .        .        He  rises  now ! 
Now  plucks  my  hero's  berry  bough, 
And  lifts  aloft  his  red  fox  head, 
And  signals  he  has  won  for  me. 
Hist,  softly  !     Let  him  come  and  see. 


^••or  tiT^SS 
'UHIVIRSITYl 


50  THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Oh,  come  !  my  white-crowned  hero,  come  ! 

Oh,  come  !  and  I  will  be  your  bride, 

Despite  yon  chieftain's  craft  and  might. 

Come  back  to  me  !  my  lips  are  dumb, 

My  hands  are  helpless  with  dispair; 

The  hair  you  kissed,  my  long,  strong  hair, 

Is  reaching  to  the  ruddy  tide, 

That  you  may  clutch  it  when  you  come. 

"  How  slow  he  buffets  back  the  wave  ! 

O  God,  he  sinks  !   O  Heaven  !  save 

My  brave,  brave  king  !   He  rises  !   see  ! 

Hold  fast,  my  hero  !   Strike  for  me. 

Strike  straight  this  way  !   Strike   firm  and  strong  ! 

Hold  fast  your  strength.     It  is  not  long — 

O  God,  he  sinks  !   He  sinks  !   Is  gone  ! 

"  And  did  I  dream  and  do  I  wake? 

Or  did  I  wake  and  now  but  dream  ? 

And  what  is  this  crawls  from  the  stream  ? 

Oh,  here  is  some  mad,  mad  mistake  ! 

What,  you  !   The  red  fox  at  my  feet  ? 

You  first,  and  failing  from  a  race  ? 

What  !  You  have  brought  me  berries  red  ? 

What  !  You  have  brought  your  bride  a  wreath  ? 

You  sly  red  fox  with  wrinkled  face — 

That  blade  has  blood  between  your  teeth  ! 


THE  SIOUX  CHIEFS  DAUGHTER.  51 

"  Lie  low  !   lie  low  !   now  I  lean  o'er 

And  clutch  your  red  blade  to  the  shore.      .     . 

Ha  !   ha  !     Take  that  !   and  that  !   and  dream  ! 

Ha,  ha  !     So,  through  your  coward  throat 

The  full  day  shines  !     .     .     .     Two  fox-tails  float 

And  drift  and  drive  far  down  the  stream. 

"  But  what  is  this  ?  What  snowy  crest 
Climbs  out  the  willows  of  the  west, 
All  dripping  from  his  streaming  hair  ? 
'T  is  he  !   My  hero  brave  and  fair  ! 
His  face  is  lifting  to  my  face, 
And  who  shall  now  dispute  the  race  ? 

"The  gray  hawks  pass,  O  love  !  and  doves 
O'er  yonder  lodge  shall  coo  their  loves. 
My  hands  shall  heal  your  wounded  breast, 
And  in  yon  tall  lodge  two  shall  rest." 


52  CUSTER. 


CUSTER. 

OH,  it  were  better  dying  there 
On  glory's  front,  with  trumpets'  blare, 
And  battle's  shout  blent  wild  about — 
The  sense  of  sacrifice,  the  roar 
Of  war  !     The  soul  might  well  leap  out — 
The  brave,  white  soul  leap  boldly  out 
The  door  of  wounds,  and  up  the  stair 

Of  heaven  to  God's  open  door, 
While  yet  the  knees  were  bent  in  prayer. 


OUTSIDE  OF  CHURCH.  53 


OUTSIDE  OF  CHURCH. 

IT  seems  to  me  a  grandest  thing 
To  save  the  soul  from  perishing 
By  planting  it  where  heaven's  rain 
May  reach  and  make  it  grow  again. 

It  seems  to  me  the  man  who  leaves 
The  soul  to  perish  is  as  one 

Who  gathers  up  the  empty  sheaves 
When  all  the  golden  grain  is  done. 


54  DOH'.V  THE  MISSISSIPPI  AT  NIGHT. 


DOWN  THE  MISSISSIPPI  AT  NIGHT. 

SOWING  the  waves  with  a  fiery  rain, 
Leaving  behind  us  a  lane  of  light, 
Weaving  a  web  in  the  woof  of  night, 

Cleaving  a  continent's  wealth  in  twain. 

Lighting  the  world  with  a  way  of  flame, 
Writing,  even  as  the  lightnings  write 
High  over  the  awful  arched  forehead  of  night, 

Jehovah's  dread  and  unutterable  name. 


LA  EXPOSICION.  55 


LA  EXPOSICION. 

NKW    ORLEANS. 

THE  banners  !     The  bells  !     The  red  banners  ! 

The  rainbows  of  banners  !     The  chimes  ! 
The  music  of  stars  !     The  sweet  manners 

Of  peace  in  old  pastoral  times  ! 

The  coming  of  nations  !      Kings  bringing 
Rich  gifts  to  Republics  !     The  trees 

Of  paradise,  and  birds  singing 

By  the  side  of  De  Soto's  swift  seas  ! 


56  A  NUBIAN  FACE  ON  THE  NILE. 


A  NUBIAN   FACE  ON  THE  NILE. 

ONE  night  we  touched  the  lily  shore, 
And  then  passed  on,  in  night  indeed, 
Against  the  far  white  waterfall. 
I  saw  no  more,  shall  know  no  more 
Of  her  for  aye.     And  you  who  read 
This  broken  bit  of  dream  will  smile, 
Half  vexed  that  I  saw  aught  at  all. 
The  waves  struck  strophes  on  the  shore 
And  all  the  sad  song  of  the  oar 
That  long,  long  night  against  the  Nile, 
Was  :      Nevermore  and  nevermore 
This  side  that  shadowy  shore  that  lies 
Below  the  leafy  Paradise. 


THE  WORLD  IS  A  BETTER  WORLD.  57 


THE  WORLD  IS  A  BETTER  WORLD. 

AYE,  the  world  is  a  better  world  to-day  ! 

And  a  great  good  mother  this  earth  of  ours  ; 
Her  white  to-morrows  are  a  white  stairway 

To  lead  us  up  to  the  star-lit  flowers — 
The  spiral  to-morrows  that  one  by  one 
We  climb  and  we  climb  in  the  face  of  the  sun. 

Aye,  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day  ! 

For  many  a  hero  will  bear  with  wrong- 
Will  laugh  at  wrong  and  will  turn  away  ; 

Will  whistle  it  down  the  wind  with  a  song — 
Will  slay  the  wrong  with  his  splendid  scorn  ! 
The  bravest  hero  that  ever  was  born  ' 


58  LINCOLN  PARK. 


LINCOLN  PARK. 

UNWALLED  it  lies,  and  open  as  the  sun 
When  God  swings  wide  the  dark  doors  of  the  East. 

Oh,  keep  this  one  spot,  still  keep  this  one, 
Where  tramp  or  banker,  layman  or  high  priest, 
May  equal  meet  before  the  face  of  God. 
Yea,  equals  stand  upon  that  common  sod 
Where  they  shall  one  day  equals  be 
Beneath,  for  aye,  and  all  eternity. 


MONTGOMER Y  AT  QUEBEC.  59 


MONTGOMERY  AT  QUEBEC. 

SWORD  in  hand  he  was  slain  ; 

The  snow  his  winding  ; 

The  grinding  ice  at  his  feet — 
The  river  moaning  in  pain. 

Pity  and  peace  at  last ; 
Flowers  for  him  to-day 
Above  on  the  battlements  gray- 

And  the  river  rolling  past. 


6o  MAGNOLIA  BLOSSOMS. 


MAGNOLIA  BLOSSOMS. 

THE  broad  magnolia's  blooms  are  white  ; 

Her  blooms  are  large,  as  if  the  moon 
Had  lost  her  way  some  lazy  night, 

And  lodged  here  till  the  afternoon. 

Oh,  vast  white  blossoms  breathing  love  ! 
White  bosom  of  my  lady  dead, 
In  your  white  heaven  overhead 

I  look,  and  learn  to  look  above. 


MANITOBA.  6 1 


MANITOBA. 

O  NEIGHBORS,  neighbors,  rouse  you  !   Quick  ! 

My  hearth  is  empty  and  forlorn, 
My  heart  is  empty,  faint  and  sick, 

For  John  came  dragging  home  at  morn 
Two  frozen  limbs,  and  oh  !  and  oh  ! 
My  boy  left  buried  in  the  snow  ! 

Nay,  blame  not  John.     The  day  was  wild 
With  driving  snow  that  drowned  his  face. 

The  hidden  sleigh  now  holds  my  child, 
The  horse  stands  frozen  in  his  place. 

Come,  neighbors,  quick  !     Be  not  so  slow  ! 

My  boy  lies  buried  in  the  snow. 

The  snow  is  frozen  ;  follow  me  ! 

Like  ice  this  gleaming  sea  of  snow  ! 
And  far  across  the  frozen  sea 

The  mound  where  he  is  lying  low. 
Oh,  like  to  gold  his  hair  ;  his  eyes 
Were  borrowed  bits  of  yonder  skies. 


62  MANITOBA. 

I  clad  my  boy  as  best  I  had. 

The  sleigh  sped  ringing  toward  the  mill. 
My  boy  !   my  poor,  lost  farmer  lad  ! 

Oh,  that  I  had  you  with  me  still  ! 
Why,  I  would  give  these  snowy  lands 
To  knit  two  mittens  for  his  hands  ! 

But,  neighbors,  neighbors,  here  !     Behold 
This  mound  of  snow,  this  broken  place  ! 

A  sweet  face  in  a  sheen  of  gold  ! 

Oh  !   two  blue  eyes  laughing  in  my  face  ! 

My  boy,  my  boy,  safe,  sound  and  well, 

Breaks  like  a  chicken  from  his  shell  ! 


THE  NEW  PRESIDENT.  63 


THE  NEW  PRESIDENT. 


GRANITE  and  marble  and  granite, 
Corridor,  column  and  dome  ! 

A  capitol  huge  as  a  planet 

And  massive  as  marble-built  Rome. 


Stair  steps  of  granite  to  glory  ! 

Go  up  with  thy  face  to  the  sun  ; 
They  are  stained  with  the  footsteps  and  story 

Of  giants  and  battles  well  won. 

Stop—  stand  on  this  stairway  of  granite. 

Lo  !   Arlington,  storied  and  still, 
With  a  lullaby  hush.     But  the  land  it 

Springs  fresh  as  that  sun-fronted  hill. 


Beneath  us  stout-hearted  Potomac 
In  majesty  moves  to  the  sea — 

Beneath  us  a  sea  of  prcud  people 
Moves  on,  undivided  as  he, 


64  THE  NEIV  PRESIDENT. 

Yea,  strife  it  is  over  and  ended 
For  all  the  days  under  the  sun  ; 

The  banners  unite  and  are  blended 
As  moonlight  and  sunlight  in  one. 

Lo  !   banners  and  banners  and  banners, 
Broad  star-balanced  banners  of  blue — 

If  a  single  star  fell  from  fair  heaven, 
Why,  what  would  befall  us,  think  you  ? 

Lo  !  westward  and  northward  and  southward 
The  captains  come  home  from  the  wars — 

Now  the  world  shall  endure  if  we  only 
Keep  perfect  this  system  of  stars. 


THE  RIVER  OF  REST.  65 


THE  RIVER  OF  REST. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  stream  is  the  River  of  Rest  ; 

The  stili,  wide  waters  sweep  clear  and  cold, 
A  tall  mast  crosses  a  star  in  the  west, 

A  white  sail  gleams  in  the  west  world's  gold  : 
It  leans  to  the  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest — 
The  lily-lined  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest. 

The  boatman  rises,  he  reaches  a  hand, 

He  knows  you  well,  he  will  steer  you  true, 
And  far,  so  far,  from  all  ills  upon  land, 

From  hates,  from  fates  that  pursue  and  pursue; 
Far  over  the  lily-lined  River  of  Rest- 
Dear  mystical,  magical  River  of  Rest. 

A  storied,  sweet  stream  is  this  River  of  Rest ; 

The  souls  of  all  time  keep  its  ultimate  shore  ; 
And  journey  you  east  or  journey  you  west, 

Unwilling,  or  willing,  sure  footed  or  sore, 
You  surely  will  come  to  this  River  of  Rest — 
This  beautiful,  beautiful  River  of  Rest, 


66  «LA  NOTTE.* 


"LA  NOTTE." 

Is  it  night  ?     And  sits  at  night  your  pillow  ? 

Sits  darkness  about  you  like  death  ? 
Rolls  darkness  above  like  a  billow, 

As  drowning  men  catch  in  their  breath  ? 

Is  it  night,  and  deep  night  of  dark  errors, 
Of  crosses,  of  pitfalls  and  bars  ? 

Then  lift  up  your  face  from  your  terrors, 
For  heaven  alone  holds  the  stars  ! 

Lo  !  shaggy-beard  shepherds,  the  fastness- 
Lorn,  desolate  Syrian  sod ; 

The  darkness,  the  midnight,  the  vastness — 
That  vast,  solemn  night  bore  a  God  ! 

That  night  brought  us  God  !  and  the  Savior 

Lay  down  in  a  manger  to  rest ; 
A  sweet  cherub  Babe  in  behavior, 

So  that  all  Baby-world  might  be  blest, 


.CALIFORNIA'S  CHRISTMAS. 


CALIFORNIA'S  CHRISTMAS. 

THE  stars  are  large  as  lilies  !     Morn 

Seems  some  illumined  story— 
The  story  of  our  Savior  born, 

Told  from  yon  turrets  hoary— 
The  full  moon  smiling  tips  a  horn 

And  hies  to  bed  in  glory  ! 

My  sunclad  city  walks  in  light 
And  lasting  summer  weather  ; 

Red  roses  bloom  on  bosoms  white 
And  rosy  cheeks  together. 

If  you  should  smite  one  cheek,  still  smite 
For  she  will  turn  the  other. 

The  thronged  warm  street  tides  to  and  fro 

And  Love,  roseclad,  discloses. 
The  only  snowstorm  we  shall  know 

Is  this  white  storm  of  roses- 
It  seems  like  May  time,  mating  so, 
And — Nature  counting  noses. 


68  CALIFORNIA'S  CHRISTMAS. 

Soft  sea  winds  sleep  on  yonder  tide ; 

You  hear  some  boatmen  rowing. 
Their  sisters'  hands  trail  o'er  the  side  ; 

They  toy  with  warm  waves  flowing  ; 
Their  laps  are  laden  deep  and  wide 

From  rose-trees  green  and  growing. 

Such  roses  white  !  such  roses  red  ! 

Such  roses  richly  yellow  ! 
The  air  is  like  a  perfume  fed 

From  autumn  fruits  full  mellow — 
But  see  !   a  brother  bends  his  head, 

An  oar  forgets  its  fellow  ! 

Give  me  to  live  in  land  like  this, 

Nor  let  me  wander  further  ; 
Some  sister  in  some  boat  of  bliss 

And  I  her  only  brother- 
Sweet  paradise  on  earth  it  is  ; 
I  would  not  seek  another. 


THOSE  PERILOUS  -SPAX/Xlf  E  YES,  69 


THOSE  PERILOUS  SPANISH  EYES 

SOME  fragrant  trees, 

Some  flower-sown  seas 
Where  boats  go  up  and  down, 

And  a  sense  of  rest 

To  the  tired  breast 
In  that  beauteous  Aztec  town. 

But  the  terrible  thing  in  that  Aztec  town 

That  will  blow  men's  rest  to  the  stormiest  skies, 

Or  whether  they  journey  or  they  lie  down— 
Those  perilous  Spanish  eyes  ! 

Snow  walls  without, 

Drawn  sharp  about 
To  prop  the  sapphire  skies  ! 

Two  huge  gate-posts, 

Snow-white  like  ghosts — 
date-posts  to  this  paradise  ! 

But,  oh  !   turn  back  from  the  high-walled  town  ! 

There  is  trouble  enough  in  this  world,  I  surmise, 
Without  men  riding  in  regiments  down — 

Oh,  those  perilous  Spanish  eyes  ! 


70  NE\\  TOKT  NXIVS. 


NEWPORT  NEWS. 

THE  huge  sea  monster,  the  "  Merrimac  ;  " 
The  mad  sea  monster,  the  "  Monitor  ;  " 
You  may  sweep  the  sea,  peer  forward  and  back, 
But  never  a  sign  or  a  sound  of  war. 
A  vulture  or  two  in  the  heavens  blue  : 

A  sweet  town  building,  a  boatman's  call; 
The  far  sea-song  of  a  pleasure  crew; 

The  sound  of  hammers.     And  that  is  all. 

And  where  are  the  monsters  that  tore  this  main  ? 
And  where  are  the  monsters  that  shook  this  shore  ? 
The  sea  grew  mad  !     And  the  shore  shot  flame  ! 
The  mad  sea  monsters  they  are  no  more. 

The  palm,  and  the  pine,  and  the  sea-sands  brown; 

The  far  sea-songs  of  the  pleasure  crews; 
The  air  like  balm  in  this  building  town — 
And  that  is  the  picture  of  Newport  News.. 


THE   TRUE  POET.  71 


THE  TRUE  POET. 

O,  HEARD  ye  the  eloquent  song  of  God's  silence  ? 

The  vines  are  His  lines;  and  the  emerald  sod, 
The  page  of  His  book,  and  the  green-girdled  islands 

Are  rocked  to  their  rest  in  the  cradle  of  God. 

God's  poet  is  silence  !     His  song  is  unspoken 
And  yet  so  profound,  and  so  loud,  and  so  far, 

That  it  thrills  you  and  fills  you  in  measures  unbroken — 
The  unceasing  song  of  the  first  morning  star. 

The  shallow  seas  moan  !  As  a  child  they  have  mut 
tered, 

And  mourned,  and  lamented,  and  wept  at  their  will; 
The  poems  of  God  are  too  good  to  be  uttered— 

The  dreadful  deep  seas,  they  are  loudest  when  still. 


72  COMING. 


COMING. 

MY  own  and  my  only  Love  some  night 

Shall  keep  her  tryst,  shall  come  from  the  South, 

And  oh,  her  robe  of  magnolia  white  ! 

And  oh,  and  oh,  the  breath  of  her  mouth  ! 

And  oh,  her  grace  in  the  grasses  sweet  ! 

And  oh,  her  love  in  the  leaves  new  born  ! 
And  oh,  and  oh,  her  lily-white  feet 

Set  daintily  down  in  the  dew-wet  morn! 

The  drowsy  cattle  at  night  shall  kneel 

And  give  God  thanks,  and  shall  dream  and  rest; 
The  stars  slip  down  and  a  golden  seal 

Be  set  on  the  meadows  my  Love  has  blest. 

Come  back,  my  Love,  come  sudden,  come  soon. 

The  world  lies  waiting  as  the  cold  dead  lie ; 
The  frightened  winds  wail  and  the  crisp-curled  moon 

Rides,  wrapped  in  clouds,  up  the  cold  gray  sky. 


:CMLVG. 


73 


Oh,  Summer,  my  Love,  :tiy  first,  last  Love  ! 
I  sit  ail  day  by  Potomac  here, 

Waiting  and  waiting  the  voice  of  the  dove- 
Waiting  my  darling,  my  own,  my  dear. 


74  BY  THE  BALBOA  SEAS. 


BY  THE  BALBOA  SEAS. 

THE  golden  fleece  is  at  our  feet, 
Our  hills  are  girt  in  sheen  of  gold ; 

Our  golden  flower-fields  are  sweet 
With  honey  hives.     A  thousand-fold 

More  fair  our  fruits  on  laden  stem 

Than  Jordan's  tow'rd  Jerusalem. 

Beneath  our  ancient  cloud-clad  trees 
The  ages  pass  in  silence  by. 

Gold  apples  of  Hesperides 

Hang  at  our  God -land  gates  for  aye. 

Our  golden  shores  have  golden  keys 

Where  sound  and  sing  the  Balboa  seas. 


••  TO  DIE  FOR  THE  COL'XTRY*  75 


"TO  DIE  FOR  THE  COUNTRY 
•  Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned  than  war." 

To  die  for  the  country  I  when  dying  comes 
It  is  not  for  the  flag,  it  is  not  for  the  land, 
It  is  not  for  the  glory,  the  battle  grand — 

For  all  the  cannon  and  the  roll  of  drums  ! 

The  prayer  is  not  for  the  flag  in  the  fight, 
But  ever  for  home,  for  babe  and  for  wife  ; 
For  life  and  the  loved  ones — life,  sweet  life — 

And  that  is  the  prayer  in  the  battle's  night  ! 

I  tell  you,  to  see  the  man  a*  your  side 

Sink  down  as  you  hear  that  sickening  thud — 
To  look  in  his  face,  to  see  the  blood 

Slow  oozing  from  lips  that  have  lost  their  pride  ! 

I  tell  you  to  see  his  brimming  eyes  swim  ! 
I  tell  you.  to  see  him  clutch  to  the  mold 
And  grasp  at  the  grass,  as  if  to  hold 

The  earth  from  passing  away  from  him  ' 


76  "  TO  DIE  FOR  THE  COUNTRY." 

Oh,  ye  who  have  witnessed  the  dying  in  heaps, 
The  Northerner  heaped  with  the  Southerner, 

Just  as  the  hastening  reaper  reaps 
Blossoms  and  corn  and  cockle  burr  ! 


Answer  and  say  if  ever  a  breath 

Was  heard  of  delight  to  die  for  the  land  ? 

Nay,  only  the  reach  of  a  helpless  hand 
To  hold  each  back  from  the  banks  of  death. 


Nothing  at  all,  in  that  last  despair, 

Of  the  one  last  shot  in  the  desperate  strife  ; 

But  only  a  prayer,  a  low  last  prayer 

For  her  at  the  last,  and  for  life,  sweet  life  ! 


Nothing  at  all  of  a  sword  from  the  sheath 
For  the  one  last  blow  from  the  field  afar, 

But  only  a  prayer ;  then  grinding  of  teeth, 

And  a  curse  upon  those  who  compelled  the  wan 


For,  oh  !  it  is  hard  for  the  man  to  go, 
So  many  are  waiting  him  far  away  ; 

He  can  hear  his  kindly-eyed  cattle  low ; 
He  can  see  his  wife  and  her  babes  at  play. 


••  TO  DIE  FOR  THE  COUNTRY."  77 

So  he  who  says  it  is  sweet  to  die 

For  country  has  never  yet  felt  or  seen 

The  shock  of  battle  or  the  sheaves  between, 

And  tells  you  a  pitiful  Pagan's  lie. 


78  OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY. 


OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY. 

I. 
WITH  high  face  held  to  her  ultimate  star, 

With  swift  feet  set  to  her  mountains  of  gold, 
This  new-built  world,  where  the  wonders  are, 

She  has  built  ntw  ways  from  the  ways  of  old. 

II. 
Her  builders  of  worlds  are  workers  with  hands  ; 

Her  true  world-builders  are  builders  of  these, 
The  engines,  the  plows  ;  writing  poems  in  sands 

Of  gold  in  our  golden  Hesperides. 

III. 
I  reckon  these  builders  as  gods  among  men  : 

I  count  them  creators,  creators  who  knew 
The  thrill  of  dominion,  of  conquest,  as  when 

God  set  His  stars  spinning  their  spaces  of  blue. 

IV. 
A  song  for  these  soldiers  of  peace  ;  and  again 

A  song  for  the  marvels  these  men  have  wrought 
Our  gleamy  snows,  and  their  bredes  of  grain 

If  unrolled  as  a  scroll  could  record  them  not. 


OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY.  79 

V. 

A  song  for  the  groove,  and  a  song  for  the  wheel, 
And  a  roaring  song  for  the  rumbling  car  ; 

But  away  with  the  pomp  of  the  soldier's  steel, 
And  away  forever  with  the  trade  of  war. 

VI. 

The  hero  of  time  is  the  hero  of  thought  ; 

The  hero  who  lives  is  the  hero  of  peace  ; 
And  braver  his  battles  than  ever  were  fought, 

From  Shiloh  back  to  the  battles  of  Greece. 

VII. 
The  hero  of  heroes  is  the  engineer  ; 

The  hero  of  height  and  of  gnome-built  deep, 
Whose  only  fear  is  the  brave  man's  fear 

That  someone  waiting  at  home  might  weep. 

VIII. 
The  hero  we  love  in  this  land  to-day 

Is  the  hero  who  lightens  some  fellow-man's  load — 
Who  makes  of  the  mountain  some  pleasant  highway  ; 

Who  makes  of  the  desert  some  blossom-sown  road. 

IX. 
The  Stanfords,  the  Sutros  and  the  Hallidays, 

And  an  hundred  more  with  their  names  untold — 
They  are  kinglier  far  in  their  uncrowned  ways 

Than  ever  were  kings  with  their  crowns  of  golc}. 


80  OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY. 

X. 

Then  hurrah  !  for  the  land  of  the  golden  downs, 
For  the  fruitful  land  of  the  silver  horn  ; 

Her  heroes  have  built  her  a  thousand  towns, 
But  never  destroyed  her  one  blade  of  corn. 


THE  LOST  BOY  RE GIMENTS.  8 1 


THE    LOST    BOY   REGIMENTS. 

IT  was  terror  to  left,  it  was  terror  to  right, 

The  gunboats  came  cleaving  their  way  through   the 

land- 
Came  shouting  by  day  and  shelling  by  night, 

With  cities  in  ashes  on  either  hand— 
The  great  iron  monsters  incessantly 
Shelling  and  shelling  their  way  to  the  sea  ! 

And  only  veterans,  gray  that  day — 

Gray  in  the  glory  of  God's  uniform, 
And  marshaled  and  ready  to  march  away 

To  that  great  roll-call  that  shall  ride  the  storm, 
Only  women  and  these  old  men  gray, 
And  schoolboys  fighting  in  mimic  fray. 

For  emptied  of  men  was  the  land  to  the  main; 

They  had  gone  to  the  wars,  they  were  far  away. 
But  mothers  cried  out,  as  in  travail  pain, 

And  boys  grew  to  men  on  that  battle  day  ! 
And  boys  grew  to  men  in  their  brave  intents — 
•'"ame  shouting  and  rushing  in  regiments; 


82  THE  LOST  BOY  REGIMENTS. 

Came  manning  the  dykes  up  the  cypress  wood, 
The  brave  boy-regiments  born  in  a  day, 

And  under  the  dykes  in  battle  line  stood, 
With  cannon  and  muskets  in  battle  array. 

Ay,  breathless  and  eager  in  brave  defense 

Stood  waiting  the  stern  boy-regiments. 

Then    smoke    burst  forth  from  the  great  gunboats  ! 

And  iron  and  steel  came  tearing  into 
The  wood-built  dykes  from  the  iron  throats 

Till  the  dykes  were  broken,  and  booming  through 
The  riddled  old  walls  and  the  widening  rents 
The  waves  rolled  over  the  regiments  ! 

Their  muskets  lay  mute  in  their  watery  graves, 
Their  cannon  had  never  one  word  to  say  ; 

Their  red  mouths  washed  by  the  rushing  waves 
And  lost  in  the  marshes  were  the  men  in  gray. 

The  great  gunboats  sailed  on  as  before, 

Shelling  and  shelling  the  flame-lit  shore  ! 

Their  muskets,  their  cannon,  have  nothing  to  say, 
They  are  rusting  to-day  by  the  great  swamp  trees, 

Gray  cypress-trees  kneeling  on  rugged  old  knees, 
As  gray  monks  kneel  by  their  dead  to  pray. 

And  fireflies  volley  and  volley  in  vain 

TO  call  the  boy-regiments  back  again. 


BY  THE  LOWER  MISSISSIPPI.  83 


BY  THE  LOWER   MISSISSIPPI. 

THE  king  of  rivers  has  a  dolorous  shore, 
A  dreamful  dominion  of  cypress-trees, 

A  gray  bird  rising  forever  more, 

And  drifting  away  toward  the  Mexican  seas— 

A  lone  bird  seeking  for  some  lost  mate, 

So  dolorous,  lorn  and  desolate. 

The  shores  are  gray  as  the  sands  are  gray; 

And  gray  are  the  trees  in  their  cloaks  of  moss  ; — 
That  gray  bird  rising  and  drifting  away, 

Slow  dragging  its  weary  long  legs  across— 
So  weary,  just  over  the  gray  wood's  brink  ; 
It  wearies  one,  body  and  soul,  to  think. 

These  vast  gray  levels  of  cypress  wood, 

The   gray  soldiers'  graves;  and  so,  God's  will— 

These  cypress-trees'  roots  are  still  running  blood  ; 
The  smoke  of  battle  in  their  mosses  still — 

That  gray  bird  wearily  drifting  away 

Was  startled  some  long-since  battle  day. 


84  HER  PICTURE. 


HER  PICTURE. 

I  SEE  her  now — the  fairest  thing 
That  ever  mocked  man's  picturing, 
I  picture  her  as  one  who  drew 
Aside  life's  curtain  and  looked  through 
The  mists  of  all  life's  mystery 
As  from  a  wood  to  open  sea. 

I  picture  her  as  one  who  knew 
How  rare  is  truth  to  be  untrue — 
As  one  who  knew  the  awful  sign 
Of  death,  of  life,  of  the  divine 
Sweet  pity  of  all  loves,  all  hates, 
Beneath  the  iron-footed  fates. 

I  picture  her  as  seeking  peace, 

And  olive  leaves  and  vine-set  land  ; 
While  strife  stood  by  on  either  hand, 

And  wrung  her  tears  like  rosaries. 

I  picture  her  in  passing  rhyme 
As  of,  yet  not  a  part  of,  these — 

A  woman  born  above  her  time. 


HER  PICTURE.  85 

The  soft,  wide  eyes  of  wonderment 

That  trusting  looked  you  through  and  through ; 
The  sweet,  arched  mouth,   a  bow  new  bent, 

That  sent  love's  arrow  swift  and  true. 

That  sweet,  arched  mouth  !  The  Orient 
Hath  not  such  pearls  in  all  her  stores, 
Nor  all  her  storied,  spice-set  shores 

Have  fragrance  such  as  it  hath  spent. 


86  DROWNED. 


DROWNED. 

A  FIG  for  her  story  of  shame  and  of  pride  ! 

She  strayed  in  the  night  and  her  feet  fell  astray ; 

The  great  Mississippi  was  glad  that  day, 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died  ; 

The  great  Mississippi  was  glad,  I  say, 
And  splendid  with  strength  in  his  fierce  full  pride — 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died. 

And  that  was  the  reason,  from  first  to  last ; 

Down  under  the  dark,  still  cypresses  there 
The  Father  of  Waters  he  held  her  fast. 

He  kissed  her  face,  he  fondled  her  hair, 
No  more,  no  more  an  unloved  outcast, 

He  clasped  her  close  to  his  great,  strong  breast, 

Brave  lover  that  loved  her  last  and  best. 

Around  and  around  in  her  watery  world, 

Down  under  the  boughs  where  the  bank  hung  steep, 
And  cypress-trees  kneeled  all  gnarly  and  curled, 

Where  woods  were  dark  as  the  waters  were  deep, 


DROWNED.  87 

Where  strong,  swift  waters  were  swept  and  swirled, 
Where  the  whirlpool  sobbed  and  sucked  in  its  breath, 
As  some  great  monster  that  is  choking  to  death: 

Where  sweeping  and  swirling  around  and  around 
That  whirlpool  eddied  so  dark  and  so  deep 

That  even  a  populous  world  might  have  drowned, 
So  surging,  so  vast,  and  so  swift  its  sweep — 
She  rode  on  the  wave.      And  the  trees  that  weep, 

The  solemn  gray  cypresses  leaning  o'er  ; 

The  roots  ran  blood  as  they  leaned  from  the  shore  ! 

She  surely  was  drowned  !     But  she  should  have  been 

still ; 
She  should    have   been    dead    as    the    dead    under 

ground ; 

She  should  have  been  still  as  the  dead  on  the  hill  ! 
But  ever  and  ever  she  eddied  around, 
And  so  nearer  and  nearer  she  drew  me  there 
Till  her  eyes  met  mine  in  their  cold  dead  stare. 

Then  she  looked,  and  she  looked  as  to  look  me  through; 

And  she  came  so  close  to  my  feet  on  the  shore. 

And  her  large  eyes,  larger  than  ever  before, 
They  never  grew  weary  as  dead  men's  do. 

And  her  hair  !   as  long  as  the  moss  that  swept 

From  the  cypress-trees  as  they  leaned  and  wept. 


88  DROWNED. 

Then  the  moon  rose  up,  and  she  came  to  see, 
Her  long  white  fingers  slow  pointing  there  ; 

Why,  shoulder  to  shoulder  the  moon  with  me 

On  the  bank  that  night,  with  her  shoulders  bare, 
Slow  pointing  and  pointing  that  white  face  out, 
As  it  swirled  and  it  swirled,  and  it  swirled  about. 

There  ever  and  ever,  around  and  around, 

Those  great  sad  eyes  that  refused  to  sleep  ! 

Reproachful  sad  eyes  that  had  ceased  to  weep  ! 
And  the  great  whirlpool  with  its  gurgling  sound  ! 

The  reproachful  dead  that  was  not  yet  dead  ! 

The  long  strong  hair  from  that  shapely  head  ! 

Her  hair  was  so  long  !   so  marvelous  long, 

As  she  rode  and  she  rode  on  that  whirlpool's  breast ; 

And  she  rode  sc  swift,  and  she  rode  so  strong, 

Never  to  rest  as  the  dead  should  rest. 

Oh,  tell  me  true,  could  her  hair  in  the  wave 
Have  grown,  as  grow  dead  men's  in  the  grave? 

For,  hist  !   I  have  heard  that  a  virgin's  hair 
Will  grow  in  the  grave  of  a  virgin  true, 

Will  grow  and  grow  in  the  coffin  there, 

Till  head  and  foot  it  is  filled  with  hair 
All  silken  and  soft — but  what  say  you  ? 
Yea,  tell  me  truly  can  this  be  true  ? 


DROIVXED.  89 

For  oh,  her  hair  was  so  strangely  long 

That  it  bound  her  about  like  a  veil  of  night, 

With  only  her  pitiful  face  in  sight  ! 
As  she  rode  so  swift,  and  she  rode  so  strong, 

That  it  wrapped  her  about,  as  a  shroud  had  done, 

A  shroud,  a  coffin,  and  a  veil  in  one. 

And  oh,  that  ride  on  the  whirling  tide  ! 

That  whirling  and  whirling  it  is  in  my  head, 

For  the  eyes  of  my  dead  they  are  not  yet  dead, 
Though  surely  the  lady  had  long  since  died. 

Then  the  mourning  wood  by  the  watery  grave  ; 

The  moon's  white  face  to  the  face  in  the  wave. 

That  moon  I  shall  hate  !     For  she  left  her  place 
Unasked  up  in  heaven  to  show  me  that  face. 

I  shall  hate  forever  the  sounding  tide  ; 
For  oh,  that  swirling  it  is  in  my  head 
As  it  swept  and  it  swirled  with  my  dead  not  dead, 

And  it  gasped  and  it  sobbed  as  a  God  that  died. 


90  AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

SING  banners  and  cannon  and  roll  of  drum  ! 

The  shouting  of  men  and  the  marshaling  ! 
Lo  !   cannon  to  cannon  and  earth  struck  dumb! 

Oh,  battle,  in  song,  is  a  glorious  thing  ! 

Oh,  glorious  day,  riding  down  to  the  fight  ! 

Oh,  glorious  battle  in  story  and  song  ! 
Oh,  godlike  man  to  die  for  the  right  ! 

Oh,  manlike  God  to  revenge  the  wrong  ! 

Yea,  riding  to  battle,  on  battle  day- 
Why,  a  soldier  is  something  more  than  a  king  ! 

But  after  the  battle  !     The  riding  away  ! 
Ah,  the  riding  away  is  another  thing  ! 


MY  COUNTRY.  91 


MY   COUNTRY. 


MY  country,  what  is  it  ?     A  place  that  is  dear 
From  holy  traditions  of  dear  baby  land, 

From  faces  long  vanished,  from  dust  we  revere, 

From  friendships  of  boyhood  that  grew  hand  in  hand 

And  merged  into  manhood  as  year  knit  to  year. 


My  country,  where  is  it  ?     The  place  where  I  knew 
A  dear  mother's  face,  where  God  sat  me  down 

At  the  first,  where  I  gathered    my  strength,  where  I 

grew 
To  believe  the  fair  limits  that  girded  me  round 

The  down-falling  curtains  of  heaven's  own  blue. 


My  country,  where  is  it  ?     The  place  where  the  soul 
Takes  color,  takes  form  and  expression  and  size  ; 
The  spot  where  the  star-studded  scroll  of  the  skies 

Proclaims  my  protection,  that  volumes  the  whole 
Oflove,  of  existence,  of  all  that  men  prize. 


Q 2  MY  COUNTRY 

My  country,  where  is  it  ?     The  icy. North  Pole, 
Or  any  north  land,  or  land  anywhere, 
May  be  sacred  to  others,  be  fond  or  be  fair  : 

But  my  own  natal  skies  are  a  legible  scroll 

With  the  dear  name  of  MOTHER  indelibly  there. 


AFTER  THE  WAR.  93 


AFTER  THE  WAR. 

YES,  bread  !   I  want  bread  !     You  heard  what  I  said, 

Yet  you  stand  and  you  stare, 
As  if  never  before  came  a  tramp  to  your  door 

With  such  insolent  air. 

Would    I  work?     Never  learned. — My    home  it  was 

burned  ; 

And  I  haven't  yet  found 
Any    heart    to    plow  lands  and  build  homes    for   red 

hands 
That  burned  mine  to  the  ground. 


No  bread  !  you   have  said  ? — Then  my  curse  on  your 

head  ! 

And,  what  shall  sting  worse, 
On    that   wife  at   your  side,  on   those   babes   in  their 

pride, 
Fall  my  seven-fold  curse  ! — 


94  AFTER   THE   WAR, 

Good  bye  !      I  must  Tarn  to  creep  into  your  barn  ; 

Suck  your  eggs  ;  hide  away  ; 

Sneak   around   like  a   hound — light  a    match  in  your 
hay — 

Limp  away  through  the  gray  ! 

Yes,  I  limp — curse  these   stones  !     And  then   my  old 

bones — 

They  were  riddled  with  ball 
Down   at  Shiloh.      What,   you  ?     You    war  wounded 

thar,  too  ? 
Well,  you  beat  us — that's  all. 

Yet  even  my  heart  with  a  stout  pride  will  start 

As  I  tramp.     For,  you  see, 
No  matter  which  won,  it  was  gallantly  done, 

And  a  glorious  American  victory. 

WThat,  kind  words  and  bread  ?     God's  smiles  on  your 

head  ! 
On  your  wife    on  your  babes  ! — and  please,   sir,   I 

pray 
You'll   pardon   me,  sir;  but  that    fight  trenched   me 

here, 
Deep — deeper  than  sword-cut  that  day. 


AFTER  THE  WAR.  95 

Nay.     I'll  go.      Sir,  adieu !      Tit  Tityre    *     *     *     You 

Have  Augustus  for  friend  — 
I — Yes,  read  and  speak  both  Latin  and  Greek, 

And  talk  slang  without  end. 

Hey  ?  Oxford.  But,  then,  when  the  wild  cry  for  men 
Rang  out  through  the  gathering  night 

As  a  mother  who  cries  for  her  first  born  that  dies, 
We  two  hurried  home  for  the  fight. 

How  noble  my  brother,  how  brave — and — but  there — 
This  tramping  about  somehow  hurts  my  eyes. 

At  Shiloh  !  We  stood  'neath  the  hill  by  the  wood — 
It 's  a  graveyard  to-day,  I  surmise. 

Yes    we    stood  to    the  last  !      And    when     the    strife 
passed 

I  sank  down  in  blood  at  his  side. 
On  his  brow,  on  his  breast — what  need  tell  the  rest  ? — 

I  but  knew  that  my  brother  had  died. 

What  !   wounds  on  your  breast  ?      Your  brow  tells  the 
rest? 

You  fought  at  my  side  and  ivw  fell? 
V<nt  the  brave  boy  that  stood  at  my  side  in  that  wood, 

On  that  blazing  red  border  of  hell? 


96  AFTER  THE  WAR. 

My  brother  !     My  own  !     Never  king  on  his  throne 

Knew  a  joy  like  this  brought  to  me. 
God  bless  you,  my  life  ;  bless  your  brave  Northern 
wife, 

And  your  beautiful  babes,  two  and  three. 


BY  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN,  97 


BY  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN. 

HERE  room  and  kingly  silence  keep 
Companionship  in  state  austere, 
The  dignity  of  death  is  here, 

The  large,  lone  vastness  of  the  deep. 
Here  toil  has  pitched  his  camp  to  rest, 
The  west  is  banked  against  the  west. 

Above  yon  gleaming  skies  of  gold 
One  lone  imperial  peak  is  seen  ; 
While  gathered  at  his  feet  in  green 

Ten  thousand  foresters  are  told. 
And  all  so  still  '.   so  still  the  air 
That  duty  drops  the  web  of  care. 

Beneath  the  sunset's  golden  sheaves 
The  awful  deep  walks  with  the  deep, 
Where  silent  sea-doves  slip  and  sweep, 

And  commerce  keeps  her  loom  and  weaves. 
The  dead  red  men  refuse  to  rest  ; 
Their  ghosts  illume  my  lurid  West 


BY  THE  GREAT  KIVER. 


BY  THE  GREAT   RIVER. 

OH,  lion  of  the  ample  earth, 

What  sword  can  cleave  thy  sinews  through  ? 

The  South  forever  cradles  you  ; 
And  yet  the  great  North  gives  you  birth. 

Go  find  an  arm  so  strong,  so  sure, 
Go  forge  a  sword  so  keen,  so  true, 
That  it  can  thrust  thy  bosom  through; 

Then  may  this  Union  not  endure  ! 

In  orange  lands  I  lean  to-day 

Against  thy  warm  tremendous  mouth, 
Oh,  tawny  lion  of  the  South, 

To  hear  what  story  you  shall  say. 

What  story  of  the  stormy  North, 

Of  frost-bound  homes,  of  babes  at  play — 
What  tale  of  twenty  States  the  day 

You  left  your  lair  and  leapt  forth  : 


BY  THE  GREAT  RIVER.  99 

The  day  you  tore  the  mountain's  breast 

And  in  the  icy  North  uprose, 

And  shook  your  sides  of  rains  and  snows, 
And  rushed  against  the  South  to  rest  : 

Oh,  tawny  river,  what  of  they, 

The  far  North  folk  ?     The  maiden  sweet — 

The  ardent  lover  at  her  feet— 
What  story  of   thy  States  to-day  ! 


The  river  kissed  my  garment's  hem, 
And  whispered  as  it  swept  away  : 
"God's  story  in  all  States  to-day 

Is  of  a  babe  of  Bethlehem" 


1 00  GRANT  A  T  SHfL  OH. 


GRANT  AT    SHILOH. 

THE  blue  and  the  gray  !   Their  work  was   well  done  ! 

They  lay  as  to  listen  to  the  waters  flow. 
Some  lay  with  their  faces  upturned  to  the  sun, 

As  seeking  to  know  what  the  gods  might  know. 
Their  work  was  well  done,  each  soldier  was  true. 
But  what  is  the  question  that  comes  to  you  ? 

For  all  that  men  do,  for  all  that    men  dare, 
That  river  still  runs  with  its  stateliest  flow. 

The  sun  and  the  moon  I  scarcely  think  care 
A  fig  for  the  fallen,  of  friend  or  of  foe. 

But  the  moss-mantled  cypress,  the  old  soldiers  say, 

Still  mantles  in  smoke  of  that  battle  day  ! 

These  men  in  the  dust  !     These  pitiful  dead  ! 

The  gray  and  the  blue,  the  blue  and  the  gray, 
The  headless  trunk  and  the  trunkless  head  ; 

The  image  of  God  in  the  gory  clay  ! 
And  who  was  the  bravest  ?     Say,  can  you  tell 
If  Death  throws  dice  with  a  loaded  shell  ? 


TWILIGHT  AT  OAKLAND  HEIGHTS.  IOI 


TWILIGHT  ON  OAKLAND  HEIGHTS. 

THE  brave  young  city  by  the  Balboa  seas 

Lies   compassed  about  by  the  hosts  of  night- 
Lies  humming,  low,  like  a  hive  of  bees; 

And  the  day  lies  dead.     And  its  spirit's  flight 
Is  far  to  the  west  ;  while  the  golden  bars 
That  bound  it  are  broken  to  a  dust  of  stars. 

Come  under  my  oaks,  oh,  drowsy  dusk  ! 

The  wolf  and  the  dog  ;  dear  incense  hour 
When  Mother  Earth  hath  a  smell  of  musk, 

And  things  of  the  spirit  assert  their  power — 
When  candles  are  set  to  burn  in  the  west — 
Set  head  and  foot  to  the  day  at  rest. 


102  B1XTH  OF  CALIFORNIA'S  ARBOR  DAY, 


THE  BIRTH  OF  CALIFORNIA'S  ARBOR  DAY. 

"The  address  was  by  Hon.  John  P.  Irish.  He  believed  tree- 
planting  originated  in  Nebraska,  twenty-six  years  ago,  where  the 
wide  plains  had  been  made  to  yield  rich  harvests  through  this 
custom,  the  arable  land  steadily  moving  westward  at  the  rate  of 
three  miles  every  year,  as  the  trees  were  planted.  In  that  State, 
and  in  others  that  had  followed  Nebraska's  example,  Arbor  Day 
was  a  legal  holiday,  and  he  hoped  to  see  the  occasion  entrenched 
as  a  legal  holiday  in  the  laws  of  this  State.  He  was  glad  that 
this  movement  was  due  to  the  inspiration  of  Joaquin  Miller,  be 
cause  he  is  to  live  in  the  world's  immortal  literature  as  the  poet 
of  the  Sierras,  along  whose  slopes  man's  hand  is  wasting  God's 
prodigal  gifts.  It  was  eminently  appropriate  that  to  this  poet's  in 
spiration  these  mountains  should  be  reclothed  with  their  emerald 
robes  and  made  majestic  in  their  forests  and  groves.  "Every 
tree  is  a  tree  of  life,  for  it  contains  that  which  sustains  life  and 
gives  to  us  a  knowledge  that  leads  us  to  a  higher  contemplation  of 
the  works  of  God.  To-day  we  plant  the  tree  of  life  and  the  tree 
of  knowledge." 

Governor  Perkins  and  General  Howard  spoke  of  the  poet's 
"Crusade  Cross  of  Arbor  Day." 

ARBOR  DAY. 

AGAINST  our  golden  orient  dawns 

We  lift  a  living  light  to-day, 
That  shall  outshine  the  splendid  bronze 

That  lords  and  lights  that  lesser  Bay. 


ARBOK  DAY.  103 

Sweet  Paradise  was  sown  with  trees, 

Thy  very  name,  lorn  Nazareth, 
Means  woods,  means  sense  of  birds  and  bees, 

And  song  of  leaves  with  lisping  breath. 

God  gave  us  Mother  Earth,  full  blest 
With  robes  of  green  in  healthful  fold  ; 

We  tore  the  green  robes  from  her  breast  ! 
We  sold  our  mother's  robes  for  gold  ! 

We  sold  her  garments  fair,  and  she 
Lies  shamed  and  naked  at  our  feet  ! 

In  penitence  we  plant  a  tree  ; 

We  plant  the  cross  and  count  it  meet. 

Lo,  here,  where  Balboa's  waters  toss, 
Here  in  this  glorious  Spanish  bay, 

We  plant  the  cross,  the  Christian  cross, 
The  Crusade  Cross  of  Arbor  Day. 


104  PETER  COOPER, 


PETER  COOPER. 

DIED     1883. 

GIVE  honor  and  love  forevermore 
To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest ; 

Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 
Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 

That  ever  drew  sword  in  war  ; 
I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khan, 

Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 
Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray  ; 

For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead  hand 
Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So,  whether  to  wander  the  stars  or  to  rest 

Forever  hushed  and  dumb, 
He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best — 

Give  him  the  best  to  come. 


A.    T.   STEWART.  105 


A.   T.  STEWART. 


[The  preceding  lines  are  already  in  one  of  my  books,  but  I  put 
them  here  for  the  purpose  of  antithesis.  I  have  forgotten  when 
this  last-named  man  died.  I  doubt  if  anybody  cares  to  know.  I 
doubt  if  anybody  even  knows  where  he  is  buried. 

Of  course  I  shall  be  abused  for  doing  what  I  do.  But  I  have 
my  duties.  And  I  shall  stand  stoutly  up  against  the  face  of  the 
world  in  its  foolish  deification  of  gold  when  I  think  it  best.] 


THE  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  with  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 
Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones. 

The  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood, 
The  silver  black  with  groans. 

And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud 

"There'll  be  no  pocket  in  my  shroud  /" 


106  THE  LARGER  COLLEGE. 


THE  LARGER  COLLEGE. 

ON  LAYING  THE  COLLEGE  CORNER-STONE. 

WHERE  San  Diego  seas  are  warm, 

Where  winter  winds  from  warm  Cathay 

Sing  sibilant,  where  blossoms  swarm 
With  Hybla's  bees,  we  come  to  lay 

This  tribute  of  the  truest,  best, 

The  warmest  daughter  of  the  WTest. 

Here  Progress  plants  her  corner-stone 
Against  this  warm,  still,  Cortez  wave. 

In  ashes  of  the  Aztec's  throne, 
In  tummals  of  the  Toltec's  grave, 

We  plant  this  stone,  and  from  the  sod 
Pick  painted  fragments  of  his  god. 

Here  Progress  lifts  her  torch  to  teach 
God's  pathway  through  the  pass  of  care; 

Her  altar-stone  Balboa's  Beach, 

Her  incense  warm,  sweet,  perfumed  air  ; 

Such  incense  !  where  white  strophes  reach 
And  lap  and  lave  Balboa's  Beach! 


THE  LARGER  COLLEGE.  107 

We  plant  this  stone  as  some  small  seed 
Is  sown  at  springtime,  warm  with  earth  ; 

We  sow  this  seed  as  some  good  deed 
Is  sown,  to  grow  until  its  worth 

Shall  grow,  through  rugged  steeps  of  time, 

To  touch  the  God-built  stars  sublime. 

WTe  lift  this  lighthouse  by  the  sea, 

The  westmost  sea,  the  westmost  shore, 

To  guide  man's  ship  of  destiny 
When  Scylla  and  Charybdis  roar ; 

To  teach  him  strength,  to  proudly  teach 

God's  grandeur,  where  His  white  palms  reach: 

To  teach  not  Sybil  books  alone  ; 

Man's  books  are  but  a  climbing  stair, 
Lain  step  by  step,  like  stairs  of  stone  ; 

The  stairway  here,  the  temple  there — 
Man's  lampad  honor,  and  his  trust, 
The  God  who  called  him  from  the  dust. 

Man's  books  are  but  man's  alphabet, 

Beyond  and  on  his  lessons  lie — 
The  lessons  of  the  violet, 

The  large  gold  letters  of  the  sky  ; 
The  love  of  beauty,  blossomed  soil, 
The  large  content,  the  tranquil  toil: 


108  THE  LARGER  COLLEGE. 

The  toil  that  nature  ever  taught, 
The  patient  toil,  the  constant  stir, 

The  toil  of  seas  where  shores  are  wrought, 
The  toil  of  Christ,  the  carpenter; 

The  toil  of  God  incessantly 

By  palm-set  land  or  frozen  sea. 

Behold  this  sea,  that  sapphire  sky! 

Where  nature  does  so  much  for  man, 
Shall  man  not  set  his  standard  high, 

And  hold  some  higher,  holier  plan? 
Some  loftier  plan  than  ever  planned 
By  outworn  book  of  outworn  land  ? 

Where  God  has  done  so  much  for  man, 
Shall  man  for  God  do  aught  at  all? 

The  soul  that  feeds  on  books  alone — 
I  count  that  soul  exceeding  small 

That  lives  alone  by  book  and  creed, — 

A  soul  that  has  not  learned  to  read. 

These  broad  banana  leaves  shall  teach 
The  larger  lesson.  Read  who  will 

Their  wider  page,  their  broader  reach 
Of  thought,  of  creed,  profounder  skill, 

The  red-lipped  laughter  of  their  bloom, — 

A  torch  that  leads  from  out  our  tomb! 


THE  LARGER  COLLEGE.  1 09 

The  light  is  on  us,  and  such  light  ! 

Such  perfumed  warmth  of  winter  sea  ! 
Such  musky  smell  of  maiden  night  ! 

Such  bridal  bough  and  orange-tree  ! 
Such  wondrous  stars  !  Yon  lily  moon 
Seems  like  some  long-lost  afternoon  ! 

More  perfect  than  a  string  of  pearls 

We  hold  the  full  days  of  the  year; 
The  days  troop  by  like  flower  girls, 

And  all  the  days  are  ours  here. 
Here  youth  must  learn  ;  here 'age  may  live 
Full  tide  each  day  the  year  can  give. 

No  frosted  wall,  no  frozen  hasp, 

Shuts  Nature's  book  from  us  to-day; 

Her  palm-leaves  lift  too  high  to  clasp  ; 
Her  college  walls  the  milky  way. 

The  light  is  with  us  !     Read  and  lead  ! 

The  larger  book,  the  loftier  deed  ! 


HO  THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC. 


THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC. 


Two  or  three  hundred  steps  to  the  right  and  up  a  general 
incline  and  you  stand  on  the  broad,  high  porch  of  Mount  Vernon. 

A  great  river  creeps  close  underneath  one  hundred  feet  or 
two  below.  You  might  suppose  you  could  throw  a  stone,  standing 
on  the  porch,  into  the  Potomac  as  seen  through  the  trees,  that  hug 
the  hillside  and  the  water's  bank  below.  All  is  quiet,  so  quiet. 
Now  and  then  a  barnyard  fowl,  back  in  the  rear,  strained  his 
glossy  neck  and  called  out  loud  and  clear  in  the  eternal  Sabbath 
here ;  a  fine  shaggy  dog  wallowed  and  romped  about  the  grassy 
dooryard,  while  far  out  over  the  vast  river  some  black,  wide-winged 
birds  kept  circling  round  and  round.  I  went  back  and  around 
into  the  barnyard  to  inquire  what  kind  of  birds  they  were.  I  met 
a  very  respectful  but  very  stammery  negro  here.  He  took  his  cap 
in  his  hand,  and  twisting  it  all  about  and  opening  his  mouth  many 
times,  he  finally  said: 

"Do-do-dose  burds  was  created  by  de  Lord  to  p-p-pu-purify  de 
yearth." 

"  But  what  do  you  call  them,  uncle  ?" 

"Tur-tur-tur,"  and  he  twisted  his  cap,  backed  out,  came  for 
ward,  winked  his  eyes,  but  could  not  go  on. 

"  Do  you  mean  turkey  buzzards  ?" 

"  Ya-ya-yas,  sah,  do-do-dose  burds  eats  up  de  carrion  ob  de 
yearth,  sah." 

Down  yonder  is  the  tomb,  the  family  vault.  Back  in  the  rear 
of  the  two  marble  coffins  about  thirty  of  the  Washington  family 


THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC.  1 1 1 

lie,  The  vault  is  locked  up  and  closed  forever.  The  key  has  been 
thrown  into  the  trusty  old  Potomac  to  lie  there  until  the  last  trump 
shall  open  all  tombs. 

Let  no  one  hereafter  complain  of  having  to  live  in  a  garret 
alone  and  without  a  fire.  For  here,  with  all  this  spacious  and 
noble  house  to  select  from,  the  widow  of  Washington  chose  a 
garret  looking  to  the  south  and  out  upon  his  tomb.  This  is  the 
old  tomb  where  he  was  first  laid  to  rest  and  where  the  fallen  oak 
leaves  are  crowding  in  heaps  now  and  almost  filling  up  the  low,  dark 
doorway. 

This  garret  has  but  one  window,  a  small  and  narrow  dormer 
window,  and  is  otherwise  quite  dark.  A  bottom  corner  of  the 
door  is  cut  away  so  that  her  cat  might  come  and  go  at  will.  And 
this  is  the  saddest,  tenderest  sight  at  Mount  Vernon.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  see  this  noble  lady  sitting  here,  looking  out  upon 
the  tomb  of  her  mighty  dead,  the  great  river  sweeping  fast  beyond, 
her  heart  full  of  the  memory  of  a  mighty  Nation's  birth,  waiting, 
waiting,  waiting. 

The  thing,  however,  of  the  most  singular  interest  here  is  a 
key  of  the  Bastile,  presented  by  Thomas  Paine  to  Lafayette,  who 
brought  it  to  America  and  presented  it  to  Washington.  It  hangs 
here  in  a  glass  case,  massive  and  monstrous.  It  is  a  hideous, 
horrible  thing  and  has,  perhaps,  more  blood  and  misery  on  it  than 
any  other  piece  of  iron  or  steel  that  ever  was  seen. 

THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC. 

PAINE  !     The  Prison  of  France  !      Lafayette  ! 

The  Bastile  key  to  our  Washington, 
Whose  feet  on  the  neck  of  tyrants  set 

Shattered  their  prisons  every  one. 


!I2  THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC. 

The  key  hangs  here  on  his  white  walls  high, 
That  all  shall  see,  that  none  shall  forget 
What  tyrants  have  been,  what  they  may  be  yet ; 

And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 

On  Washington's  walls  let  it  rust  and  rust, 

And  tell  its  story  of  blood  and  of  tears, 
That  Time  still  holds  to  the  Poet's  trust, 

To  people  his  pages  for  years  and  years. 

The  monstrous  shape  on  the  white  walls  high, 
Like  a  thief  in  chains  let  it  rot  and  rust — 
Its  kings  and  adorers  crowned  in  dust  ; 

And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 


113  A  DEAD  CARPENTER. 


A  DEAD   CARPENTER. 

WHAT  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  now  dead  ? 

This  builder,  this  brother,  now  resting  forever  ? 
What  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  who  bled 

Through  thirty-three  years  of  silent  endeavor  ? 

Why,  name  him  thy  hero  !     Yea,  write  his  name  down 
As  something  far  nobler,  as  braver  by  far 

Than  purple-robed  Caesar  of  battle-torn  town 
When  bringing  home  glittering  trophies  of  war. 

Oh,  dark  somber  pines  of  my  starlit  Sierras, 
Be  silent  of  song,  for  the  master  is  mute  ! 

The  Carpenter,  master,  is  dead  and  lo  !   there  is 
Silence  of  song  upon  nature's  draped  lute  ! 

Brother  !     Oh,  manly  dead  brother  of  mine  ! 

My  brother  by  toil  'mid  the  toiling  and  lowly, 
My  brother  by  sign  of  this  hard  hand,  by  sign 

Of  toil,  and  hard  toil,  that  the  Christ  has  made  holy; 


114  A  DEAD  CARPENTER. 

Yea,  brother  of  all  the  brave  millions  that  toil  ! 

Brave  brother  in  patience  and  silent  endeavor, 
Rest,  as  the  harvester  rich  from  his  soil, 

Rest  you,  and  rest  you  for  ever  and  ever. 


BACK  TO  THE  GOLDEN  GATE.  115 


BACK  TO  THE  GOLDEN  GATE 

Yea,  I  have  tracked  the  hemispheres, 
Have  touched  on  fairest  land  that  lies 
This  side  the  gates  of  Paradise  ; 

Have  ranged  the  universe  for  years ; 
Have  read  the  book  of  love  right  on, 

From  title  leaf  to  colophon. 


1 1 6  THE  FOR  TUNA  TE  ISLES. 


THE   FORTUNATE  ISLES. 

You  sail  and  you  seek  for  the  Fortunate  Isles, 

The  old  Greek   Isles  of  the  yellow-birds'  song  ? 
Then  steer  straight  on  through  the  watery  miles, 

Straight  on,  straight  on  and  you  can't  go  wrong. 
Nay  not  to  the  left,  nay  not  to  the  right, 
But  on,  straight  on,  and  the  Isles  are  in  sight, 
The  Fortunate  Isles  where  the  yellow-birds  sing 
And  life  lies  girt  with  a  golden  ring. 

These  Fortunate  Isles  they  are  not  so  far, 

They  lie  within  reach  of  the  lowliest  door; 
You  can  see  them  gleam  by  the  twilight  star; 

You  can  hear  them  sing  by  the  moon's  white  shore — 
Nay,  never  look  back  !     Those  leveled  grave-stones 
They  were  landing  steps;  they  were  steps  unto  thrones 
Of  glory  for  souls  that  have  sailed  before, 
And  have  set  white  feet  on  the  fortunate  shore. 

And  what  are  the  names  of  the  Fortunate  Isles? 

Why,  Duty  and  Love  and  a  large  content. 
Lo  !  these  are  the  Isles  of  the  watery  miles, 

That  God  let  down  from  the  firmament. 


THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES. 


Lo  !  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  true  man's  trust; 
Your  forehead  to  God  though  your  feet  in  the  dust; 
Lo  !  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  sweet  babe's  smiles, 
And  these,  O  friend,  are  the  Fortunate  Isles. 


Il8  THE  SIZE  OF   SOULS. 


THE  SIZE  OF  SOULS. 

DIDST  never  think  how  souls  have  size, 
And  weight,    and  measure,    in   God's  eyes, 
So  different  from  weight  and  span 
And  measure  given  them  by  man  ? 


SIERRA. 

WITH  vast  foundations  seamed  and  knit, 
And  wrought  and  bound  by  golden  bars, 

Sierra's  peaks  serenely  sit 

And  challenge  heaven's  sentry-stars. 


QUEBEC. 

SHE  gleams  above  a  granite  throne  ; 
Her  gray  walls  gird  her  ample  zone  ; 
She  queens  the  North,  supreme — alone  ! 


DEAD  AV  THE  LOXG,   STROXG  GRASS. 


DEAD  IN  THE  LONG,  STRONG  GRASS. 


Born  to  the  saddle  and  bred  by  a  chain  of  events  to  rids 
with  the  wind  until  I  met  the  stolid  riders  of  England,  I  can 
now  see  how  it  was  that  Anthony  Trollope,  Lord  Houghton  and 
others  of  the  saddle  and  "  meet"  gave  me  ready  place  in  their 
midst  Not  that  the  English  were  less  daring  ;  but  they  were 
less  fortunate  ;  may,  I  say  less  experienced.  I  recall  the  fact  that 
I  once  found  Lord  Houghton's  brother,  Lord  Crewe,  and  his  son 
also,  under  the  hands  of  the  surgeon  in  York  ;  one  with  a  broken 
thigh,  and  the  other  with  a  few  broken  ribs.  But  in  all  our  hard 
riding  I  never  had  a  scratch. 

One  morning  Trollope  hinted  that  my  immunity  was  due 
to  my  big  Spanish  saddle,  which  I  had  brought  from  Mexico 
City.  I  threw  my  saddle  on  the  grass  and  rode  without  so  much 
as  a  blanket.  And  I  rode  neck  to  neck  ;  and  then  left  them  all 
behind  and  nearly  everyone  unhorsed. 

Prince  Napoleon  was  of  the  party  that  morning  ;  and  as 
the  gentlemen  pulled  themselves  together  on  the  return  he  kept 
bv  my  side,  and  finally  proposed  a  tour  through  Notts  and  Sher 
wood  Forest  on  horseback.  And  so  it  fell  out  that  we  rode 
together  much. 

But  he  had  already  been  persistently  trained  in  the  slow 
military  methods  ;  and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  teach  him  to 
c'.ing  to  his  horse  and  climb  into  th^  saddle  as  he  ran,  after 
the  fashion  of  Indians  and  vaqueros.  He  admired  it  greatly,  but 
seemed  to  think  it  unbecoming  a  soldier. 


120          DEAD  IN  THE  LONG,   STRONG  GRASS, 

It  was  at  the  Literary  Fund  dinner,  where  Stanley  and 
Prince  Napoleon  stood  together  when  they  made  their  speeches, 
that  I  saw  this  brave  and  brilliant  young  man  for  the  last  time. 
He  was  about  to  set  out  for  Africa  with  the  English  troops  to 
take  part  in  the  Zulu  war. 

He  seemed  very  serious.  When  about  to  separate  he  took  my 
hand,  and,  looking  me  all  the  time  in  the  face,  placed  a  large 
diamond  on  my  ringer,  saying  something  about  its  being  from 
the  land  to  which  he  was  going.  I  refused  to  take  it,  for  I  had 
heard  that  the  Emperor  died  poor.  But  as  he  begged  me  to 
keep  it,  at  least  till  he  should  come  back,  it  has  hardly  left  my 
hand  since  he  placed  it  there. 

Piteous  that  this  heir  to  the  throne  of  France  should  die 
alone  in  the  yellow  grass  at  the  hand  of  savages  in  that  same 
land  where  the  great  Emperor  had  said:  "  Soldiers,  from  yonder 
pyramids  twenty  centuries  behold  your  deeds." 

Dead  !   Dead  !  stark  in  the  long,  strong  grass  ! 

He  died  with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 

Who  says  it  ?  who  saw  it  ?  God  saw  it  ! 

And  I  knew   him  !     St.  George  !   he   would  draw  it, 

Though  they  swooped  down  in  mass 

Till  they  darkene 1  the  land  ! 

Then  the  seventeen  wounds  in  his  breast! 

Ah  !  these  witness  best. 

Dead  !     Stark  dead  in  the  long,  strong  grass  ! 
Dead  !   and  aloae  in  the  great  dark   land  ! 
O  mother  !   not  Empress  now,  mother  ! 
A  nobler  name,  too,  than  all  other, 


DEAD  IN  Till-:  LONG,   STRONG  GRASS. 

The  laurel  leaf  fades  from  thy  hand  ! 
O  mother  that  waiteth,  a  mass  ! 
Masses  and  chants  must  be  said, 
And  cypress,  instead. 


121 


122       MY  LAST  DA  Y  WITH  MR.  LONGFELLOW, 


MY  LAST  DAY  WITH  MR.   LONGFELLOW. 


Many  others,  I  know,  stood  nearer  him,  so  much  nearer  and 
dearer,  and  maybe  I  ought  not  to  claim  the  right  to  say  much  of 
a  sacred  nature  ;  but  somehow  I  always  felt,  when  he  reached  out 
his  right  hand  and  drew  me  to  him,  and  looked  me  fairly  and 
silently  in  the  face  with  his  earnest  seer  eyes,  that  he  knew  me| 
did  not  dislike  me,  and  that  he  knew,  soul  to  soul,  we  sought  the 
good  and  the  beautiful  and  true,  each  after  his  fashion,  and  as  best 
he  knew. 

He  had  a  pretty  way  of  always  getting  out  of  the  house — that 
beautiful  house  of  his,  where  Washington  had  dwelt — into  the 
woods.  He  possessed  a  wonderful  lot  of  books,  but  he  knew  the 
birds,  the  crickets,  the  flowers,  woods  and  grasses  were  more  in 
my  way,  and  with  rare  delicacy  he  never  talked  on  books  at  all, 
but  led  out  at  once,  whenever  possible,  to  our  mutual  friends  in 
the  rear  of  the  old  Headquarters  of  Washington. 

Walt  Whitman  chanced  to  be  in  Boston  when  I  last  visited 
Mr.  Longfellow,  and  I  was  delighted  to  hear  the  poet  at  his  table 
in  the  midst  of  his  perfect  family  speak  of  him  most  kindly.  Soon 
after  he  looked  me  up  at  my  hotel  in  Boston,  and  we  two  called  on 
the  good,  gray  poet  together,  I  mention  this  merely  to  italicize 
the  suggestion  that  Longfellow's  was  a  large  nature. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  a  pall  of  black  suddenly  fell  upon 
the  Republic.     Garfield  lay  dead  at  Elberon  ! 

A  publisher  solicited  from  each  of  the  several  authors  then  in 
and  about  Boston  some  tribute  of  sorrow  for  the  dead.  The  gen 
erous  sum  of  $100  was  checked  as  an  earnest.  >  I  remember  how 


MY  LAST  DAY  ll'ITII  MR.    I.OXC,  ]-ELLO\\ '.       123 

big-hearted  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  and  I  got  Walt  Whitman  down  in 
a  cave  somewhere  under  the  Revere  House,  where  a  bottle  of 
champagne  was  found,  and  wrestled  with  him  in  a  vain  effort  to 
make  him  earn  and  accept  his  $100. 

"Yes,  I'm  sorry  as  the  sorriest;  sympathize  with  the  great 
broken  heart  of  the  world  over  this  dead  sovereign  citizen.  But 
I've  nothing  to  say." 

And  so,  persuade  as  we  might,  even  till  past  midnight,  Walt 
Whitman  would  not  touch  the  money  or  try  to  write  a  line.  He 
was  poor;  but  bear  it  forever  in  testimony  that  he  was  honest,  and 
would  not  promise  to  sell  that  which  he  felt  that  God  had  not  at 
that  moment  given  him  to  sell.  And  hereafter,  whenever  any  of 
you  are  disposed  to  speak  or  even  think  unkindly  of  Walt  Whit 
man,  remember  this  refusal  of  his  to  touch  a  whole  heap  of  money 
when  he  might  have  had  it  for  ten  lines,  and  maybe  less  than  ten 
minutes'  employment.  I  love  him  for  it.  There  is  not  a  butcher, 
nor  a  baker,  nor  a  merchant,  not  a  banker  in  America,  perhaps, 
who  would  have  been,  under  the  circumstances,  so  stubbornly,  sav 
agely  honest  with  the  world  and  himself. 

O'Reilly  had  already  written  his  glorious  lines,  and  was  happy. 
He  paid  for  the  champagne,  I  think.  Memory  is  a  little  confused 
here.  But  I  know  that  is  a  way  he  has.  Soon  after  midnight  I 
left  the  others  in  the  cave,  and  went  up  to  my  room  in  the  hotel 
and  went  to  work.  Early  next  morning  I  drove  over  to  Mr.  Long 
fellow  in  great  haste  and  read  my  lines..  Kindly  he  listened  as 
I  read,  and  then  carefully  looked  them  all  over  and  made  some 
important  improvements.  He  had  also  partly  written,  and  read 
me,  his  poem  on  the  sad  theme.  But  it  was  too  stately  and  fine 
for  company  with  our  less  mature  work,  and  at  the  last  moment  it 
was  withheld  on  the  plea  that  it  was  still  incomplete  It  soon 
after  appeared  in  the  New  York///  iependent.  As  I  was  hastening 
away  with  my  manuscript  for  the  press,  he  said  as  he  came  with 
me  down  to  the  gate,  that  the  Queen  of  England  had  done  more  to 


124      My  LAST  DAY  WITH  MR,  LOXG FELLOW. 

conquer  America  by  sending  the  wreath  for  the  funeral  of  the  dead 
President  than  all  the  Georges  had  ever  done  with  all  their  troops 
and  cannon.  And  he  said  it  in  such  a  poetical  way  that  I  thought 
it  an  unfinished  couplet  of  his  poem.  I  never  saw  him  any  more. 

GARFIELD. 

"  Bear  me  out  of  the  battle,  for  lo,  I  am  sorely  wounded." 
FROM  out  the  vast,  wide-bosomed  West, 

Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 
Deep  scarred  from  Redmen  gone  to  rest, 

Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 
For  worlds  to  follow  in  their  quest  ; 

Where  pipes  the  quail,  where  squirrels  play 
Through  tops  of  trees  with  nuts  for  toy, 

A  boy  stood  forth  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  timid  boy,  a  bashful  boy, 

Yet  comely  as  the  sons  of  Saul — 
A  boy  all  friendless,  all  unknown, 
Yet  heir-apparent  to  a  throne: 

A  throne  the  proudest  ever  known 
For  him  who  bears  him  noblest,  best, 

And  it  was  won  by  him  alone, 

That  boy  from  out  that  wooded  West. 

And  now  to  fall !      Pale-browed  and  prone 
He  lies  in  everlasting  rest, 


125  GARFIELD. 

The  nations  clasp  the  cold,  dead  hand  ; 

The  nations  sob  aloud  at  this; 
The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  line 

Now  at  the  last  we  know  are  his, 
While  she  who  sends  a  wreath  has  won 
More  conquest  than  her  hosts  had  done. 

Brave  heart,  farewell.      The  wheel  has  run 
Full  circle,  and  behold  a  grave 

Beneath  the  old  loved  trees  is  done. 
The  druid  oaks  lift  up  and  wave 
A  solemn  beckon  back.      The  brave 

Old  maples  welcome  every  one. 

Receive  him,  earth.     In  center  land, 

As  in  the  center  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 

The  coffin  sinks.     And  we  depart 

Each  on  his  way,  as  God  deems  best 

To  do,  and  so  deserve  to  rest. 


126  TO  MOUNT  SHASTA. 


TO  MOUNT  SHASTA. 

I  STOOD  where  thunderbolts  were  wont 
To  smite  thy  Titan-fashioned  front; 
I  heard  huge  mountains  rock  and  roll  ; 

I  saw  the  lightning's  gleaming  rod 
Reach  forth  and  write  on  heaven's  scroll 

The  awful  autograph  of  God  ! 


FINALE.  I27 


FINALE. 

WHEN  ye  have  conned  the  hundreth  time 

My  sins  and  sagely  magnified 
Your  oft-told  fictions  into  crimes 

Dark  planned,  and  so  turned  all  aside, 
Why  then  have  done,  I  beg,  I  pray. 

These  shadows  ye  have  fashioned  lie 
So  heavily  along  my  way. 

And  I  would  fain  have  light  :     And  I 
Would  fain  have  love  :     Have  love  one  little  hour 

Ere  God  has  plucked  my  day,  a  tearful  flower. 

But  when  the  cloud-draped  day  is  done, 

Now  happily  not  long  for  me, 
For  lo  !     I  see  no  more  the  sun, 

Say  this,  if  say  ye  must,  and  see 
That  ye  mouth  not  the  simple  truth  : 

"  From  first  to  last  this  man  had  naught 
Of  us  but  insolence.     From  youth 

Right  on,  alone  he  silent  wrought 
Nor  answered  us.     And  yet  from  us  he  knew 

But  thrust  of  lance    that  thrust  him  through  and 
through." 


128  FINALE. 

Ah  me  !     I  mind  me  long  agone, 

Once  on  a  savage  snow-bound  height 
We  pigmies  pierced  a  king.     Upon 

His  bare  and  upreared  breast  till  night 
We  rained  red  arrows  and  we  rained 

Hot  lead.      Then  up  the  steep  and  slow 
He  passed  ;    yet  ever  still  disdained 

To  strike,  or  even  look  below. 
We  found  the  grizzly  high  'mid  clouds  next  morn 

And  dead,  in  all  his  silent,  splendid  scorn. 

So  leave  me,  as  the  edge  of  night 

Comes  on  a  little  time  to  pass, 
Or  pray.      For  steep  the  stony  height 

And  torn  by  storm,  and  bare  of  grass 
Or  blossom.     And  when  I  lie  dead 

Oh,  do  not  drag  me  down  once  more. 
For  Jesus'  sake  let  my  poor  head 

Lie  pillowed  'mid  these  stones.      My  store 
Of  wealth  is  these.     I  earned  them.     Let  me  keep 

Still  on  alone,  on  mine  own  star-lit  steep. 


The  gift  of  song  is,  to  my  mind,  a  solemn  gift. 
The  prophet  and  the  seer  should  rise  above  the 
levities  of  this  life.  And  so  it  is  that  I  make  hum 
ble  apology  for  now  gathering  up  from  recitation 
books  these  last  pages.  The  only  excuse  for  doing 
it  is  their  refusal  to  die;  even  under  the  mutilations 
of  the  compilers  of  "choice  selections." 


129 


IN  CLASSIC  SHADES.  I31 


IN  CLASSIC  SHADES. 

ALONE  and  sad  I  sat  me  down 

To  rest  on  Rousseau's  narrow  isle 

Below  Geneva.     Mile  on  mile, 

And  set  with  many  a  shining  town, 

Tow'rd  Dent  du  Midi  danced  the  wave 

Beneath  the  moon.     Winds  went  and  came 

And  fanned  the  stars  into  a  flame. 

I  heard  the  far  lake,  dark  and  deep, 

Rise  up  and  talk  as  in  its  sleep  ; 

I  heard  the  laughing  waters  lave 

And  lap  against  the  further  shore, 

An  idle  oar,  and  nothing  more 

Save  that  the  isle  had  voice,  and  save 

That  'round  about  its  base  of  stone 

There  plashed  and  flashed  the  foamy  Rhone, 

A  stately  man,  as  black  as  tan, 
Kept  up  a  stern  and  broken  round 
Among  the  strangers  on  the  ground. 
I  named  that  awful  African 
A  second  Hannibal. 


132  IN  CLASSIC  SHADES. 

I  gat 

My  elbows  on  the  table  ;  sat 
With  chin  in  upturned  palm  to  scan 
His  face,  and  contemplate  the  scene. 
The  moon  rode  by  a  crowned  queen. 
I  was  alone.      Lo  !  not  a  man 
To  speak  my  mother  tongue.     Ah  me  ! 
How  more  than  all  alone  can  be 
A  man  in  crowds  !     Across  the  isle 
My  Hannibal  strode  on.     The  while 
Diminished  Rousseau  sat  his  throne 
Of  books,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 


This  strange,  strong  man,  with  face  austere, 

At  last  drew  near.     He  bowed  ;   he  spake 

In  unknown  tongues.     I  could  but  shake 

My  head.     Then  half  achill  with  fear, 

I  rose,  and  sought  another  place. 

Again  I  mused.      The  kings  of  thought 

Came  by,  and  on  that  storied  spot 

I  lifted  up  a  tearful  face. 

The  star-set  Alps  they  sang  a  tune 

Unheard  by  any  soul  but  mine. 

Mont  Blanc,  as  lone  and  as  divine 

And  white,  seemed  mated  to  the  moon. 

The  past  was  mine  ;  strong-voiced  and  vast- 


IN  CLASSIC  SHADES.  133 

Stern  Calvin,  strange  Voltaire,  and  Tell, 
And  two  whose  names  are  known  too  well 
To  name,  in  grand  procession  passed. 

And  yet  again  came  Hannibal ; 
King  like  he  came,  and  drawing  near, 
I  saw  his  brow  was  now  severe 
And  resolute. 

In  tongues  unknown 
Again  he  spake.     I  was  alone, 
Was  all  unarmed,  was  worn  and  sad  ; 
But  now,  at  last,  my  spirit  had 
Its  old  assertion. 

I  arose, 

As  startled  from  a  dull  repose  ; 
With  gathered  strength  I  raised  a  hand 
And  cried,  "  I  do  not  understand." 

His  black  face  brightened  as  I  spake  ; 
He  bowed  ;  he  wagged  his  woolly  head  ; 
He  showed  his  shining  teeth,  and  said, 
"  Sah,  if  you  please,  dose  tables  heah 
Am  consecrate  to  lager  beer ; 
And,  sah,  what  will  you  have  to  take  ?" 


134  /-V  CLASSIC  SHADES. 

Not  that  I  loved  that  colored  cuss — 

Nay  !  he  had  awed  me  all  too  much — 

But  I  sprang  forth,  and  with  a  clutch 

I  grasped  his  hand,  and  hoMing  thus, 

Cried,  "  Bring  my  country's  drink  for  two  !" 

For  oh  !   that  speech  of  Saxon  sound 

To  me  was  as  a  fountain  found 

In  wastes,  and  thrilled  me  through  and  through. 


On  Rousseau's  isle,  in  Rousseau's  shade, 
Two  pink  and  spicy  drinks  were  made; 
In  classic  shades,  on  classic  ground, 
We  stirred  two  cocktails  round  and  round. 


Til. IT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON.  135 


THAT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON  TOWN. 

AN  IDYL  OF  OREGON. 

Two  webfoot  brothers  loved  a  fair 
Young  lady,  rich  and  good  to  see  ; 

And  oh,  her  black  abundant  hair  ! 
And  oh,  her  wondrous  witchery  ! 

Her  father  kept  a  cattle  farm, 

These  brothers  kept   her  safe  from  harm  : 

From  harm  of  cattle  on   the  hill  ; 

From  thick-necked  bulls  loud  bellowing 
The  livelong  morning,  loud  and  shrill, 

And  lashing  sides  like  anything  ! 
From  roaring  bulls  that  tossed  the  sand 
And  pawed  the  lilies  from  the  land. 

There  came  a  third  young  man.     He  came 
From  far  and  famous  Boston  town. 

He  was  not  handsome,  was  not  "game," 
But  he  could  "cook  a  goose  "  as  brown 

As  any  man  that  set  foot  on 

The  sunlit  shores  of  Oregon. 


136  THAT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON. 

This  Boston  man  he  taught  the  school, 
Taught  gentleness  and  love  alway, 

Said  love  and  kindness,  as  a  rule, 
Would  ultimately  "make  it  pay." 

He  was  so  gentle,  kind,  that  he 

Could  make  a  noun  and  verb  agree. 

So  when  one  day  the  brothers  grew 
All  jealous  and  did  strip  to  fight, 

He  gently  stood  between  the  two 

And  meekly  told  them  'twas  not  right. 

"  I  have  a  higher,  better  plan," 

Outspake  this  gentle  Boston  man. 

"  My  plan  is  this  :     Forget  this  fray 

About  that  lily  hand  of  hers  ; 
Go  take  your  guns  and  hunt  all  day 

High  up  yon  lofty  hill  of  firs, 
And  while  you  hunt,  my  loving  doves, 
Why,  I  will  learn  which  one  she  loves." 

The  brothers  sat  the  windy  hill, 

Their  hair  shone  yellow,  like  spun  gold, 

Their  rifles  crossed  their  laps,  but  still 

They  sat  and  sighed  and  shook  with  cold. 

Their  hearts  lay  bleeding  far  below  ; 

Above  them  gleamed  white  peaks  of  snow. 


THAT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON.  137 

Their  hounds  lay  couching,  slim  and  neat, 

A  spotted  circle  in  the  grass. 
The  valley  lay  beneath  their  feet ; 

They  heard  the  wide-winged  eagles  pass. 
The  eagles  cleft  the  clouds  above  ; 
Yet  what  could  they  but  sigh  and  love  ? 

11  If  I  could  die,"  the  elder  sighed, 

"  My  dear  young  brother  here  might  wed." 

"  Oh,  would  to  heaven  I  had  died  !  " 
The  younger  sighed  with  bended  head. 

Then  each  looked  each  full  in  the  face 

And  each  sprang  up  and  stood  in  place. 

"  If  I  could  die  "  —  the  elder  spake, — 
"  Die  by  your  hand,  the  world  would  say 

'T  was  accident  — ;  and  for  her  sake, 
Dear  brother,  be  it  so,  I  pray." 

"  Not  that !  "  the  younger  nobly  said  ; 

Then  tossed  his  gun  and  turned  his  head. 

And  fifty  paces  back  he  paced  ! 

And  as  he  paced  he  drew  the  ball ; 
Then  sudden  stopped  and  wheeled  and  faced 

His  brother  to  the  death  and  fall  ! 
Two  shots  rang  wild  upon  the  air  ! 
But  lo  !  the  two  stood  harmless  there  ! 


UNI7BRSIT7 


I  38  TIIA  T  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON. 

An  eagle  poised  high  in  the  air  ; 

Far,  far  below  the  bellowing 
Of  bullocks  ceased,  and  everywhere 

Vast  silence  sat  all  questioning. 
The  spotted  hounds  ran  circling  round, 
Their  red,  wet  noses  to  the  ground. 

And  now  each  brother  came  to  know 
That  each  had  drawn  the  deadly  ball  ; 

And  for  that  fair  girl  far  below 
Had  sought  in  vain  to  silent  fall. 

And  then  the  two  did  gladly  "  shake  " 

And  thus  the  elder  bravely  spake  : 

"  Now  let  us  run  right  hastily 

And  tell  the  kind  schoolmaster  all  ! 

Yea  !  yea  !  and  if  she  choose  not  me, 
But  all  on  you  her  favors  fall, 

This  valiant  scene,  till  all  life  ends, 

Dear  brother,  binds  us  best  of  friends." 

The  hounds  sped  down,  a  spotted  line, 
The  bulls  in  tall  abundant  grass 

Shook  back  their  horns  from  bloom  and  vine, 
And  trumpeted  to  see  them  pass  — 

They  loved  so  good,  they  loved  so  true, 

These  brothers  scarce  knew  what  to  do. 


THAT  GENTLE  MAX  FROM  BOSTON.          135 

They  sought  the  kind  schoolmaster  out 
As  swift  as  sweeps  the  light  of  morn  — 

They  could  but  love,  they  could  not  doubt 
This  man  so  gentle,  "in  a  horn." 

They  cried  :     "  Now  whose  the  lily  hand  — 

That  lady's  of  this  webfoot  land  ?  " 

They  bowed  before  that  big-nosed  man, 
That  long-nosed  man  from  Boston  town  ; 

They  talked  as  only  lovers  can, 

They  talked,  but  he  could  only  frown  ; 

And  still  they  talked  and  still  they  plead  ; 

It  was  as  pleading  with  the  dead. 

At  last  this  Boston  man  did  speak  — 
"  Her  father  has  a  thousand  ceows, 

An  hundred  bulls,  all  fat  and  sleek ; 
He  also  had  this  ample  heouse. " 

The  brothers'  eyes  stuck  out  thereat 

So  far  you  might  have  hung  your  hat. 

"  I  liked  the  looks  of  this  big  heouse  — 
My  lovely  boys,  won't  you  come  in  ? 

Her  father  has  a  thousand  ceows, 
He  also  had  a  heap  of  tin. 

The  guirl  ?     Oh  yes,  the  guirl,  you  see  — 

The  guirl,  just  neow  she  married  me." 


14°  WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON. 


WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON. 

THEY  called  him  Bill,  the  hired  man, 
But  she,  her  name  was  Mary  Jane, 
The  squire's  daughter;  and  to  reign 

The  belle  from  Ber-she-be  to  Dan 

Her  little  game.     How  lovers  rash 
Got  mittens  at  the  spelling  school  ! 
How  many  a  mute,  inglorious  fool 

Wrote  rhymes  and  sighed  and  dyed — mustache) 

This  hired  man  had  loved  her  long, 
Had  loved  her  best  and  first  and  last, 
Her  very  garments  as  she  passed 

For  him  had  symphony  and  song. 

So  when  one  day  with  sudden  frown 

She  called  him  "Bill,"  he  raised  his  head, 
He  caught  her  eye  and  faltering  said, 

"  I  love  you;  and  my  name  is  Brown." 

She  fairly  waltzed  with  rage;  she  wept; 

You  would  have  thought  the  house  on  fire. 

She  told  her  sire,  the  portly  squire, 
Then  smelt  her  smelling-salts  and  slept. 


WILLIAM  BROWN  Of  OREGON.  141 

Poor  William  did  what  could  be  done  ; 

He  swung  a  pistol  on  each  hip, 

He  gathered  up  a  great  ox-whip 
And  drove  toward  the  setting  sun. 

He  crossed  the  great  backbone  of  earth, 
He  saw  the  snowy  mountains  rolled 
Like  mighty  billows;  saw  the  gold 

Of  awful  sunsets;  felt  the  birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  that  burst  the  night 
Like  resurrection;  saw  the  face 
Of  God  and  named  it  boundless  space 

Ringed  round  with  room  and  shoreless  light. 

Her  lovers  passed.     Wolves  hunt  in  packs, 
They  sought  for  bigger  game;  somehow 
They  seemed  to  see  above  her  brow 

The  forky  sign  of  turkey  tracks. 

The  teter-board  of  life  goes  up, 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  down, 
The  sweetest  face  must  learn  to  frown; 

The  biggest  dog  has  been  a  pup. 

O  maidens!  pluck  not  at  the  air; 
The  sweetest  flowers  I  have  found 
Grow  rather  close  unto  the  ground 

And  highest  places  are  most  bare. 


I42  WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON, 

Why,  you  had  better  win  the  grace 
Of  one  poor  cussed  Af-ri-can 
Than  win  the  eyes  of  every  man 

In  love  alone  with  his  own  face. 

At  last  she  nursed  her  true  desire. 

She  sighed,  she  wept  for  William  Brown. 

She  watched  the  splendid  sun  go  down 
Like  some  great  sailing  ship  on  fire, 
Then  rose  and  checked  her  trunk  right  on; 

And  in  the  cars  she  lunched  and  lunched, 

And  had  her  ticket  punched  and  punched, 
Until  she  came  to  Oregon. 

She  reached  the  limit  of  the  lines, 
She  wore  blue  specs  upon  her  nose, 
Wore  rather  short  and  manly  clothes, 

And  so  set  out  to  reach  the  mines. 

Her  pocket  held  a  parasol, 

Her  right  hand  held  a  Testament, 
And  thus  equipped  right  on  she  went, 

Went  water-proof  and  water-fall. 

She  saw  a  miner  gazing  down, 

Slow  stirring  something  with  a  spoon; 
"O,  tell  me  true  and  tell  me  soon, 

What  has  become  of  William  Brown  ?  " 


WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON.  143 

He  looked  askance  beneath  her  specs, 

Then  stirred  his  cocktail  round  and  round, 
Then  raised  his  head  and  sighed  profound, 

And  said,  "He's  handed  in  his  checks." 

Then  care  fed  on  her  damaged  cheek, 
And  she  grew  faint,  did  Mary  Jane, 
And  smelt  her  smelling-salts  in  vain, 

And  wandered,  weary,  worn  and  weak. 

At  last,  upon  a  hill  alone, 

She  came,  and  there  she  sat  her  down; 
For  on  that  hill  there  stood  a  stone, 

And,  lo  !  that  stone  read,  "  William  Brown. ': 

"O  William  Brown!  O  William  Brown! 

And  here  you  rest  at  last,"  she  said, 

"With  this  lone  stone  above  your  head, 
And  forty  miles  from  any  town! 
I  will  plant  cypress  trees,  I  will, 

And  I  will  build  a  fence  around, 

And  I  will  fertilize  the  ground 
With  tears  enough  to  turn  a  mill." 

She  went  and  got  a  hired  man, 

She  brought  him  forty  miles  from  town, 
And  in  the  tall  grass  squatted  down 

And  bade  him  build  as  she  should  plan, 


144  WILLIAM  BROW.\T  OF  OREGON. 

But  cruel  cowboys  with  their  bands 
They  saw,  and  hurriedly  they  ran 
And  told  a  bearded  cattle  man 

Somebody  builded  on  his  lands. 

He  took  his  rifle  from  the  rack, 
He  girt  himself  in  battle  pelt, 
He  stuck  two  pistols  in  his  belt, 

And  mounting  on  his  horse's  back, 

He  plunged  ahead.     But  when  they  showed 
A  woman  fair,  about  his  eyes 
He  pulled  his  hat,  and  he  likewise 

Pulled  at  his  beard,  and  chewed  and  chewed. 

At  last  he  gat  him  down  and  spake; 
11  O  lady  dear,  what  do  you  here  ?  " 
"  I  build  a  tomb  unto  my  dear, 

I  plant  sweet  flowers  for  his  sake." 

The  bearded  man  threw  his  two  hands 
Above  his  head,  then  brought  them  down 
And  cried,  "  O,  I  am  William  Brown, 

And  this  the  corner-stone  of  my  lands  !  " 


HORACE  GREELEY'S  DRIVE.  145 


HORACE  GREELEY'S  DRIVE. 

THE  old  stage-drivers  of  the  brave  old  days  ! 

The  old  stage-drivers  with  their  dash  and  trust  ! 
These  old  stage-drivers  they  have  gone  their  ways, 

But  their  deeds  live  on,  though   their  bones    are 

dust; 

And  many  a  tale  is  told  and  retold 
Of  these  daring  men  in  the  days  of  old  : 

Of  honest  Hank  Mopk  and  his  Tally-Ho, 

When  he  took  good  Horace  in  his  stage  to  climb 

The  high  Sierras  with  their  peaks  of  snow 

And  'cross  to  Nevada,  "and  come  in  on  time  ;" 

But  the  canyon  below  was  so  deep — oh  !  so  deep— 

And  the  summit  above  was  so  steep — oh  !  so  steep  ! 

The  horses  were  foaming.     The  summit  ahead 
Seemed  as  far  as  the  stars  on  a  still,  clear  night. 

And  steeper  and  steeper  the  narrow  route  led 
Till  up  to  the  peaks  of  perpetual  white  ; 

But  the  faithful   Hank   Monk,  with  his    face   to  the 
snow, 

Sat  silent  and  stern  on  his  Tally-Ho ! 


I46  HORACE  G  REE  LEY'S  DRIVE 

Sat  silent  and  still,  sat  faithful  and  true 

To  the  great,  good  man  in  his  charge  that  day  ; 

Sat  vowing  the  man  and  the  mail  should  "  go  through 
On  time  "  though  he  bursted  both  brace  and  stay ; 

Sat  silently  vowing,  in  face  of  the  snow, 

He'd  "  get  in  on  time  "  with  his  Tally-Ho  ! 

But  the  way  was  so  steep  and  so  slow — oh  !  so  slow  ! 

'T  was  silver  below,  and  the  bright  silver  peaks 
Were  silver  above  in  their  beauty  of  snow, 

Where  eagles  swooped  by,  with  their  bright,  shiny 

beaks; 

When,  sudden  out-popping  a  head  snowy  white — 
"  Mr.  Monk,  I  must  lecture  in  Nevada  to-night  !" 

With  just  one  thought  that  the  mail  must  go  through  ; 

With  just  one  word  to  the  great,  good  man- 
But  weary — so  weary — the  creaking  stage  drew 

As  only  a  weary  old  creaking  stage  can — 
When  again  shot  the  head  ;  came  shrieking  outright ; 
"Mr.  Monk,  I  MUST  lecture  in  Nevada  to-night  !" 

Just  then  came  the  summit  !  And  the  wide  world 
below. 

It  was  Hank  Monk's  world.  But  he  no  word  spake  ; 
He  pushed  back  his  hat  to  that  high  peak  of  snow  ! 

He  threw  out  his  foot  to  the  great  strong  brake  ! 


HORACE  (VA'AA/.AT'.Y  /MY/7-;.  147 

He  threw  out  his  silk  !     He  threw  out  his  reins  ! 
And  the  great  wheels  reeled  as  if  reeling  snow  skeins  ! 

The  eagles  were  lost  in  their  crags  up  above  ! 

The  horses  flew  swift  as  the  swift  light  of  morn  ! 
The  mail  must  go  through  with  its  message  of  love, 

The  miners  were  waiting  his  bright  bugle  horn. 
The  man  must  go  through  !     And  Monk  made  a  vow 
As  he  never  had  failed,  why,  he  would  n't  fail  now  ! 

How  his  stage  spun  the  peak  like  a  fair  spider's  web  ! 

It  was  spider  and  fly  in  the  heavens  up  there  ! 
And  the  swift  swirling  wheels  made  the  blood  flow 

and  ebb, 
For  'twas   death    in    the  breadth  of    a  wheel  or  a 

hair. 
Once   more  popped  the   head,  and  the  piping  voice 

cried  : 
"  Mr.  Monk  !     Mr.  Monk  !"     But  no  Monk  replied  ! 

Then   the  great   stage  it  swung,  as  if  swung  from  the 

sky  ; 

Then  it  dipped  like  a  ship  in  the  deep  jaws  of  death; 
Then  the  good   man  he  gasped  as  men  gasping  for 

breath, 
When  they  deem  it  is  coming  their  hour  to  die. 


H8  HORACE  GREE  LEY'S  DRIVE. 

And  again  shot  the  head,  like  a  battering  ram, 

And  the  face  it  was  red,  and  the  words  they  were 
hot : 

"  Mr.  Monk  !      Mr.  Monk  !     I  don't  care  a - 

Whether  I  lecture  in  Nevada  or  not !" 


THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO.  149 


THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF    IDAHO. 

HUGE  silver  snow-peaks,  white  as  wool, 

Huge,  sleek,  fat  steers  knee-deep  in  grass, 
And  belly  deep,  and  belly  full, 

Their  flower-beds  one  fragrant  mass. 
Oh,  flower  land  so  calmly  grand, 

Where  flowers  chase  the  flying  snow! 
Oh,  high-held  land  in  God's  right  hand, 

Delicious,  dreamful  Idaho  ! 

We  rode  the  rolling  cow-sown  hills, 

That  bearded  cattle  man  and  I  ; 
Below  us  laughed  the  blossomed  rills, 

Above  the  dappled  clouds  blew  by. 
We  talked.     The  topic  ?     Guess.     Why,  sir, 

Three-fourths  of  all  men's  time  they  keep 
To  talk,  to  think,  to  be  of  HKR  ; 

The  other  fourth  they  give  to  sleep. 

To  learn  what  he  might  know  of  love, 

I  laughed  all  constancy  to  scorn. 
"  Behold  yon  happy,  changeful  dove  ! 

Behold  this  day,  all  storm  at  morn, 


15°  THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO. 

Yet  now  't  is  changed  by  cloud  and  sun, 

Yea,  all  things  change — the  heart,  the  head, 

Behold  on  earth  there  is  not  one 
That  changeth  not  in  love,"  I  said. 

He  drew  a  glass,  as  if  to  scan 

The  steeps  for  steers  ;  raised  it  and  sighed. 
He  craned  his  neck,  this  cattle  man, 

Then  drove  the  cork  home  and  replied  : 
''For  twenty  years  (forgive  these  tears), 

For  twenty  years  no  word  of  strife— 
I  have  not  known  for  twenty  years 

One  folly  from  my  faithful  wife." 

I  looked  that  tarn  man  in  the  face- 
That  dark-browed,  bearded  cattle  man. 

He  pulled  his  beard,  then  dropped  in  place 
A  broad  right  hand,  all  scarred  and  tan, 

And  toyed  with  something  shining  there 
Above  his  holster,  bright  and  small. 

I  was  convinced.     I  did  not  care 
To  agitate  his  mind  at  all. 

But  rest  I  could  not.      Know  I  must 

The  story  of  my  stalwart  guide  ; 
His  dauntless  love,  enduring  trust  ; 

His  blessed  and  most  immortal  bride. 


THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO.  15 J 

I  wondered,  marveled,  marveled  much  ; 

Was  she  of  Western  growth  ?     Was  she 
Of  Saxon  blood,  that  wife  with  such 

Eternal  truth  and  constancy  ? 

I  could  not  rest  until  I  knew  — 

"  Now  twenty  years,  my  man,"  said  I, 
"  Is  a  long  time."     He  turned,  he  drew 

A  pistol  forth,  also  a  sigh. 
"  'T  is  twenty  years  or  more,"  sighed  he. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  honest  man,  I  vow 
1  do  not  doubt  that  this  may  be  ; 

But  tell,  oh  !  tell  me  truly  how  ?" 

"  'T  would  make  a  poem,  pure  and  grand  ; 

All  time  should  note  it  near  and  far  ; 
And  thy  fair,  virgin,  gold-sown  land 

Should  stand  out  like  a  winter  star. 
America  should  heed.      And  then 

The  doubtful  French  beyond  the  sea  — 
'T  would  make  them  truer,  nobler  men 

To  know  how  this  might  truly  be." 

"  'T  is  twenty  years  or  more,"  urged  he  ; 

"Nay,  that  I  know,  good  guide  of  mine  ; 
But  lead  me  where  this  wife  may  be, 

And  I  a  pilgrim  at  a  shrine, 


I52  THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO. 

And  kneeling  as  a  pilgrim  true  "  — 
He,  leaning,  shouted  loud  and  clear  : 

"  I  can  not  show  my  wife  to  you  ; 
She  's  dead  this  more  than  twenty  year." 


SARATOGA  AXD  THE  PSALMIST.  153 


SARATOGA  AND  THE   PSALMIST. 

THESE  famous  waters  smell  like — well, 
Those  Saratoga  waters  may 
Taste  just  a  little  of  the  day 

Of  judgment;  and  the  sulphur  smell 
Suggests,  along  with  other  things, 
A  climate  rather  warm  for  springs. 

But  restful  as  a  twilight  song, 
The  land  where  every  lover  hath 
A  spring,  and  every  spring  a  path 

To  lead  love  pleasantly  along, 

Oh,  there  be  waters,  not  of  springs— 
The  waters  wise  King  David  sings. 

Sweet  is  the  bread  that  lovers  eat 
In  secret,  sang  on  harp  of  gold, 
Jerusalem's  high  king  of  old. 

"  The  stolen  waters  they  are  sweet!  " 
Oh,  dear,  delicious  piracies 
Of  kisses  upon  love's  high  seas! 


154  SARATOGA  A.\'D   THE  PSALMIST. 

The  old  traditions  of  our  race 
Repeat  for  aye  and  still  repeat; 
The  stolen  waters  still  are  sweet 

As  when  King  David  sat  in  place, 

All  purple  robed  and  crowned  in  gold, 
And  sang  his  holy  psalms  of  old. 

Oh,  to  escape  the  scorching  sun; 
To  seek  these  waters  ever  sweet; 
To  see  her  dip  her  dimpled  feet 

Where  these  delicious  waters  run- 
To  dip  her  feet,  nor  slip  nor  fall, 
Nor  stain  her  garment's  hem  at  all; 

Nor  soil  the  whiteness  of  her  feet, 

Nor  stain  her  whitest  garment's  hem — 
Oh,  singer  of  Jerusalem, 

You  sang  so  sweet,  so  wisely  sweet  ! 

Shake  hands!  shake  hands!   I  guess  you  knew 
For  all  your  psalms,  a  thing  or  two. 


FINIS. 


Of  THE 

UFIVBHSITY 


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